


Marry a Man Like No Other

by Vmello



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:50:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6686188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vmello/pseuds/Vmello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oberon is the son of a Magister. A talented mage and accomplished scholar, but that doesn't keep him from being a disappointment to his family. When the opportunity comes that they arrange an advantageous alliance with the Inquisition through marriage while getting him out of their hair they are quick to take it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Cullen tries not to fidget as Cassandra adjusts his collar. He can see Mia out of the corner of his eye, soothing her skirts of imagined wrinkles. She looks up and catches his eye, sending him a nervous smile that he struggles to return. 

“All right?” Cassandra says, patting his shoulders a bit awkwardly, her gaze managing to be both sharp and soothing as she searches his eyes. After he agreed to the arrangement she was the first to ask him if it’s what he truly wanted. She asked him again the day before as well, and he did his best to assure her he was okay. Now she asks again, silently. He nods, even as his nerves squeeze a tight fist in his stomach. 

He thought it would be easy, to give his whole self to the Inquisition. He had given everything he had to the templars, and now he tries to do the same. Now, waiting to marry a man he’s never met, he can feel fear tickling at the back of his mind. He tells himself that it’s only nerves, that everyone feels this way before their wedding. It’s too late now to turn back. He thought he had more time, but the short months since Josephine and Leliana presented him with the proposal seemed to pass in the blink of the eye. One moment he was standing in the war room, the ambassador and spymaster watching him with eager eyes, the Inquisitor telling him that it was his choice, and the next he stood here, about to marry a total stranger. 

“Have you seen him yet?” He asks Cassandra. 

“No, but Josephine has, and she’s assured me he’s very handsome.” 

Cullen nods, a bit solemnly. It’s one of the few things he’s been told about his betrothed. His name is Oberon Helianthus, he’s young and attractive. The son of a Magister, he’s a skilled mage and accomplished scholar. It’s done little to calm his nerves. 

“That’s good at least,” Mia says. “At least you aren’t being married off to some old dowager.”

“Right,” he says, clasping his hands together when he notices they’re shaking. Just then Josephine pokes her head into the room. 

“It’s time. Are you ready?” He isn’t. He’s terrified. He nods anyway and takes his place at the door, Mia looping her arm through his, Cassandra following just behind them. 

“I wish mother and father could be here to see this,” Mia says, voice tight, tears already glossing her eyes. 

“I know,” Cullen says, squeezing her hand where it rests on his elbow. Then the music starts, and it’s like the whole world around him stops. His legs seem to carry him of their own volition, and all he can hear is his heart racing, the fast beat clashing with the slow procession music. Then he sees Oberon for the first time, entering the hall from the door directly across from the one he just walked through. His betrothed. A middle aged woman, who he assumes is Oberon’s mother, on his arm. 

The first thing he notices is how young he looks. There’s no way he’s any more than twenty years. His face is severe; his grey eyes are sharp, only made more so by the kohl lining them. He has high, defined cheekbones, a strong set jaw, and a prominent aquiline nose. His eyebrows are thick and arched in a way that makes it hard for Cullen to read his expression. His hair is sheared close to his scalp on both sides of his head, the rest braided down the center, leading to a complicated, twisted bun, and Cullen catches a glimpse of tattoos high on his neck, just barely peeking past the high collar of his ceremonial robes, bright and warm against the dark olive tones of his skin. Frankly, he’s intimidating. He’s also absolutely gorgeous. 

When they meet in the middle of the aisle, Cullen’s nerves spike again. There’s no turning back now, and he doesn’t have Mia and Cassandra to anchor him. He offers his arm, and his betrothed takes it cautiously. Cullen watches him let out a shaky breath, looking at him out of the corner of his eye as they slowly make their way up the middle aisle. The next thing Cullen notices about his betrothed is that he smells like raw lyrium, and it makes his skin crawl and itch. They make their way to the altar, where the Inquisitor stands between Mother Giselle and a Tevinter cleric. The Inquisitor gives him an encouraging nod, then Giselle and the Tevinter start reciting the Chant of Light, voices mixing in an odd harmony of common and Tevene. 

The rest of the ceremony is a blur. He barely remembers saying his vows. A verse of the Chant that he could recite in his sleep. He barely remembers saying “I do.” Barely remembers a word that Giselle or the cleric say. What he remembers most, is the feel of Oberon’s hand in his own, after they remove their gloves so that Giselle can wrap their joined hands with red ribbon. His hands are soft, strong, warm, and he can feel the thrum of magic just under his skin. Before he knows it, it’s all over. They lean in for a brief kiss, a barely there brush of the lips. Then they turn to recede down the aisle. 

When they exit the main hall, into the room where they will soon be met by their entourages before they make their way to the celebration of their union, Cullen takes a moment to really look at his new husband. He can tell Oberon is trying to keep his face neutral, but Cullen doesn’t miss the hard clench of his jaw, or the way he blinks back tears.


	2. Chapter 2

Oberon is exhausted by the time he and his new husband excuse themselves from their wedding reception. He glances over his shoulder at his entourage as Cullen leads him out of the hall. His mother will not look at him and his father’s gaze is cold. The only comfort he has is Philo, his dearest friend, who gives him an encouraging nod. He swallows the lump of nerves that squeeze tight at his throat. 

He feels like a ghost, as Cullen guides him out of the main hall, towards the battlements. The only thing grounding him is the cold bite of the Ferelden night air. Soon, he will be expected to consummate his marriage to this man that he’s barely spoken ten words to. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s slept with a stranger, but this is different. This isn’t a random man he’s falling into bed with in a fit of misguided passion. This is no average stranger. This is his _husband_. 

“This is my office,” Cullen says, leading him into a tower on the battlements. “My bedroom, uh, _our_ bedroom is in the loft upstairs,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he stumbles through the words. Oberon just nods, wringing his hands together to warm them, not sure what else to do; the fire already lit in the hearth does little to warm him. Cullen starts climbing the ladder to the loft and Oberon purses his lips for a moment. Is he to climb to his bed every night, as if he lives in some sort of barn? After Cullen pulls himself onto the second level Oberon follows after him on the ladder. 

When he gets to the top Cullen helps him up and he takes time to look around. His effects are already there in the corner, waiting to be unpacked. He wraps his arms loosely around himself as a draft blows in from above, and he looks up to be greeted by stars and moonlight. He purses his lips again, to fight the sneer that tries to force itself onto his face. 

“I was told I would be marrying the Commander of the Inquisition,” he says, keeping his voice even, hating the weight of Common on his tongue, much rougher than the easy roll of Tevene he’s so used to. 

“I, um, you did,” Cullen says, sounding confused and more than a bit taken aback.

“Your ceiling. There is a hole in it.” Oberon knows his voice is harsh, cold. He can’t really make himself care. _It matches the rest of me, at least,_ he thinks bitterly, feeling like he hasn’t been warm even once since stepping into Ferelden. Not only is he expected to live out of a loft above his husband’s office, but he doesn’t even have a real roof over his head. 

“Right, sorry,” Cullen blushes. “I’ll have that fixed.” 

Oberon turns his sharp gaze from the gaping hole in the ceiling to his husband. Cullen is already dressed down to his shirtsleeves and simple trousers. Without his decorative chestplate, gauntlets, boots, and cloak he looks much softer, less intimidating. Less like a Templar knight and more like a man. It helps Oberon relax a fraction, but at the same time sends anxiety crawling up his spine. 

He feels like he should say something. Fill the deafening silence that is settling over them, but what is there to say to this man? This stranger who he is meant to spend the rest of his life with. So instead he pulls his gloves off, watching the bob of his husband’s throat as the man swallows roughly, watching him slowly undo the buckles of his wedding robes. 

“Wait,” Cullen says—his voice rough and almost panicky—and Oberon meets his eyes. “We don’t have to—we don’t have to do this.” All of Oberon’s nerves seem to center themselves in his chest, balling up into a hard rock that plummets quickly into his stomach. 

“I don’t understand,” he says. “Do we— we have to, I thought.” The panic bubbling in him makes it hard to sort his thoughts into Common. “We need to consummate our union.” His mind races. Does Cullen not find him attractive? Is he not even attracted to men? Maker if he’s trapped in a marriage with a man who can’t even stand to be with him—

“You’re nervous,” Cullen says, with a wry chuckle. “I’m nervous as well. I’d rather not do this unless we are both… enthusiastically consenting.”

Oberon just nods awkwardly, not entirely sure what happens now. He’s confused, scared, and so, so _cold_. They’re married now and to complete their union they have to consummate their marriage; he’s nervous to sleep with this man, but he isn’t sure where it leaves him if he doesn’t. Maybe things are different in Ferelden, but he’s fairly sure this is a tradition throughout Thedas. He moves over to his trunk, and digs around in it for some of his warmer sleep clothes. 

After he changes, he lies in bed, next to his husband, neither touching the other. He gets very little sleep, even as he feels all his energy drain from him. He lets out a tired sigh, looking over at his husband and watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. When he is sure the man is sleeping, he lets the tears he’s held back silently slide down his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading commenting and leaving kudos! I already have a handful of chapters written and will be posting them every Saturday. You can find me on tumblr at [VelloMello](http://vellomello.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied past child abuse in this chapter

The day after his wedding Oberon wakes alone in his new room, greeted by birds singing, perched in the branches of a tree that reaches in through the hole in the ceiling. It feels like a strange dream, surreal, like at any moment he could wake up back home in Tevinter where things make sense and there are no holes in his ceiling. The illusion is broken when one of the birds leaves wet, white droppings on the blankets at the far end of the bed. He closes his eyes and inhales slowly through his nose, fighting disgust and anger; counting to ten like his nanny tought him when he was a young child with a penchant for throwing tantrums. 

He’s slow to dress and climb down the ladder to Cullen’s office. Cullen is already standing at his desk, glaring down at the reports laid out across it. He barely glances up when Oberon walks over to his desk. 

“Good morning, husband,” Oberon greets, his accent thick in his exhaustion, and the word feels wrong in his mouth. Husband. He still can’t believe he is married now. 

“Good morning,” Cullen returns, standing up straight and finally turning his attention to his husband. “Did you sleep well,” he asks awkwardly, hand moving to the hilt of his sword, then up to rub the back of his neck, then clasping with the other in front of him briefly until he settles with crossing his arms. 

“Well enough,” Oberon replies, and an awkward silence washes over them for a moment. 

“Breakfast is being served in the mess hall, if you’re hungry. Do you remember how to get there, or should I have someone show you?”

“I remember,” he replies briskly. “Have you eaten?”

“I have work to do, I’ll be fine,” Cullen says, and for a moment Oberon just stares at him, measuring him, studying him until he starts to fidget under his cool gaze. Oberon doesn’t say or do anything to respond, just turns on his heel, showing himself out of his husband’s rooms. He had hoped Cullen would accompany him, but apparently that was too much to ask of his new husband.

He finds his way to the main hall fairly easily, but isn’t sure where to go from there. He sees a familiar dwarf standing near a fireplace near the front of the room talking to a messenger. He knows he was introduced to the dwarf at some point last night, and that he is part of the Inquisitor’s inner circle, but he remembers little else. He makes his way towards him. 

“Mess hall?” He asks. He stays brief and too the point, not entirely fluent in common, and the dwarf raises his brows at him. 

“Uh, yeah, just go through that door and go straight down the hallway. You should be able follow the noise from there,” he says. 

“Thank you,” Oberon gives him a curt nod and turns to follow his directions. 

“Real charmer, that one,” he hears the dwarf tell the messenger, who giggles in response. “Cullen’s got himself a real catch there.”

When Oberon enters the mess hall he’s met with the glares and whispers he was expecting. A few members of the Inquisitor's inner circle, a woman he recognizes as the enchanter to the Orlesian imperial court, a fellow altus, and a qunari mercenary look at him with measuring gazes, but they’re kinder than the others. He holds himself tall as he strides proudly through the room. He scans the room for familiar faces, but sees none. Eventually, he catches sight of his family's servants eating in one corner and makes his way over to them. 

“Where is Philo?” He demands in Tevene when he gets to their table. The servants startle at his sudden presence and some shuffle to stand. He waves his hand, not wanting to disrupt their meal more than necessary. 

“Master Philo is eating in his room. Your mother and father are also dining in their rooms,” one of them responds. “Shall I take you to them, ser?”

“No, finish your meal. I’ll find them on my own,” he says, and turns toward the main hall again. As he walks past the tables he hears people whisper about how cruel he looks and sounds, how rude he seemed to the servants, speculating what cruel things he had said in Tevene. It’s barely been a day since he’s arrived in Skyhold and already the people have decided to hate him. 

It takes him nearly a half hour to find the guest quarters on his own, getting lost in the maze like halls of Skyhold. He knocks briefly on the door to Philo’s room before letting himself in. He freezes for a moment when he sees his mother sitting with Philo at a table near the window, having tea. He’s quick to regain his composure, wearing a scornful smirk and giving her a curt bow. 

“Good morning, Philo. Mother.” He says in Tevene. His voice turns harsh as he addresses her, and she frowns at him. “What a pleasant surprise to see you. I wasn’t expecting to see you until your departure tomorrow.”

“Am I not allowed to have tea with one of few civil men in this Maker forsaken,” she waves her hand dismissively. “Well, calling it a palace seems inaccurate. It is rather decrepit, isn’t it.” 

“I wouldn’t call any interaction you’ve ever had civil,” Oberon says, and her chair screeches as his mother storms over to him, crowding his personal space to stare him down. He tips his chin up and returns her glare with just as much venom. He inherited his severe looks from her, but she has years of practice perfecting sharp, disapproving looks. 

“You’re such an insolent little brat. You were never so ungrateful as a child.” His mother’s voice is ice as she speaks. “I should have been stricter with you, _made_ you learn proper manners. Perhaps your new brute of a husband can teach some to you. What do they call it,” she says with a venomous sneer. “Southern hospitality?”

With that she leaves, using force magic to slam the door behind her with a dramatic flick of her wrist. Oberon glares after her, stamping down the fear that coils in his chest at her words. She knows nothing of his husband or the kind of man he is, but then again, neither does he. Behind him he hears Philo lets out a strained sigh. 

“As much as I will miss you, _frater_ , I will definitely not be missing that,” he says in common, his accent thick. 

“Why were you having tea with her in the first place,” Oberon says, not bothering to switch from Tevene to common. He feels betrayed, he knows it’s irrational, but she _makes_ him irrational.

“What am I supposed to tell her,” Philo says, switching to Tevene to make his friend more comfortable. “‘As much as I’d _love_ to have tea with you, Magister Helianthus, I can’t. Why? Oh, no reason. I just find you deplorable and terrifying and I hate you almost as much as your son does.’ I’m sure that’d go swimmingly for me.” Oberon frowns at him, and he sighs. “You look tired, _frater_ , is that a good sign, or bad?” 

Oberon starts pacing the room. Philo lets him go for a moment. When it’s clear Oberon doesn’t plan on talking any time soon, Philo stands up and walks over to him, stilling him with gentle hands on his shoulders. Oberon’s expression wavers, and he looks like he might cry. 

“Relax,” Philo says, trying to keep his voice soothing. “What happened, are you okay?” He tries to fight down his own panic. “Did he hurt you?”

“No! No,” Oberon takes a shaky breath. He glances at the door, as if he expects that any moment his mother will come bursting back in. “We didn’t,” he pauses with a pained expression and leans in to whisper. “We didn’t fuck, Philo. We didn’t consummate the wedding. He wouldn’t even touch me.”

“What!” 

“Quiet,” he says, waving his hands in front of him. He’s not sure if there could be anyone nearby who could hear them, but he doesn’t want to risk it. “I don’t know what this means, _frater_. It’s not official like this, is it? Someone could dispute us if they find out. I don’t know what I’ll do if that happens. If they chase me from here I can’t go home. What will I do?” 

“It won’t come to that,” Philo assures him. “Does anyone else know?”

“The servants will know when they come for the sheets,” Oberon says. “I don’t know if Cullen will tell anyone. If he decides he doesn’t want me—” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “You leave tomorrow and then I have no one. The people here look at me like I’m a monster. I have no friends, my own husband doesn’t want to be near me.”

“There’s still time, you’ve only just got here,” Philo says, hugging his friend. “It could get better.”

“I’m scared, Philo,” Oberon says. “I hate it here.”


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning Oberon wakes at sunrise with his husband. Just like their first night of marriage he and Cullen do not sleep together. Anxiety boils in his veins but he masks it behind indifference. He fixes his hair into a simple Orlesian braid ending in a ponytail and takes a moment to examine his face in the mirror. He looks older than he remembers. His eyes are bloodshot and the skin around them is dark and sunken. He turns his head, tilting it too and fro to see himself from different angles. He knows he’s looking at himself, but the person in the mirror seems so unfamiliar to him. They have his mother’s nose and eyebrows, his father’s mouth and jawline. They wear his jewelry, a gold ring in his septum with small details to give it the petals of a sunflower, and a simple gold ball under his bottom lip. He knows the man in the mirror is him, but he does not recognize himself. 

“I have to start the recruits training soon,” Cullen says from somewhere behind him. Oberon looks at him in the mirror, and can see him over his shoulder, pulling on the last pieces of his armor. He is just as much a stranger to Oberon as he feels he is to himself this morning. “You’re entourage isn’t leaving for another hour or so, if you’d like I could meet you at the front gate to see them off.”

“If you would like,” Oberon says, picking up his kohl and starting to smudge smokey lines around his eyes. “If you are leaving already I will have breakfast with my companion.”

“Of course,” Cullen nods. “I’ll try to be there when your family leaves.” Cullen moves to stand behind his husband. Oberon watches him in the mirror with sharp eyes, and for a moment he thinks Cullen will reach out to him, but the man’s hand drops back to his side, and he gives an awkward nod farewell before descending the ladder to the office below. Oberon doesn’t move until he hears the door below click shut behind his husband. He gives himself one last look in the mirror before he decides he doesn’t want to see himself anymore, then makes his own way down the ladder, and heading to Skyhold’s guest quarters. 

By the time the hour passes he’s had a brief breakfast with Philo and is now standing at Skyhold’s gates where his parents’ servants are doing one last check that everything is properly set for the long trip back to Tevinter. The ghostly feeling that’s been coming and going over Oberon settles in nearly full force. He doesn’t feel like he exists anymore, like the moment he stepped out of his Tevinter home for the last time his soul departed his body and he’s just been walking around as a shell of his former self. All he feels is the cold sting of Ferelden air in his throat, and the agonizing dread that comes with the realization that this may be the last time he sees his best and only friend. 

His mother puts on a show, hugs him goodbye and wishes him luck in common so everyone around can see her be a loving mother who dreads to leave her son behind. He knows the truth of it when she squeeze him just a fraction too hard, nails digging into him just enough to sting as she whispers in his ear about how he will not ruin this alliance for them. His father doesn’t say much. That’s no different than any other day since the man learned of Oberon’s preference for male partners, but for a moment, as the man grasps one of Oberon’s hands between his own, Oberon thinks he might see a glimpse of regret in his eyes. 

“Goodbye, brother,” Philo says in Tevene, stepping forward as Oberon’s parents move back. “It will be so strange to return home without you.”

“I can’t remember a time when you weren’t there by my side,” Oberon says, a small, sad smile playing at his lips. “I wish you didn’t have to go.” Philo pulls him into a tight embrace, slowly rocking them from side to side. 

“You’re going to be fine,” Philo promises. “You’re so, so strong and intelligent and have survived so much,” he takes a step back then and claps a firm hand on Oberon’s shoulder. “The south will not break you. Just try not to let anything too important freeze off.”

“I’m not ready, _frater_ ,” Oberon confesses quietly. “Without you I have nothing in this country, only strangers. I’m not ready to let you go.” 

“We will write,” Philo promises. “No matter what I will always be your brother, and I love you.” Oberon bites his lip so hard to keep himself from crying he nearly draws blood. Philo pulls him in for one last hug, and then he is gone. Oberon feels like he is standing there for an eternity watching as his family's carriage carries them and Philo away. Finally he turns and see’s the others who came to see them off. The Inquisitor and Lady Ambassador are there, as is the Lady Seeker and some of the nobles who were attempting to make connections with Tevinter. He doesn’t see Cullen. 

He lets his gaze roam over the small, dispersing crowd. He feels nothing. Feels nothing for the strange faces that look back at him, nothing for his absent husband, nothing for himself. He starts walking back to Skyhold proper, and stands at the bottom of the steps that lead to the main hall. He isn’t sure where to go from here. The guest rooms now hold nothing for him, the main hall is full of people who think him nothing more than a cruel magister, he has no appetite to lead him to the mess hall, and the only other place he knows is his husband’s quarters. Not even the cold air can ground him. With Philo’s departure, the last pieces of Oberon are gone.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s an hour to noon by the time Cassandra makes her way to the training grounds. Cullen has shed the top layer of his armor and is now only in light training gear. He’s walking between his sparring recruits, barking orders when he finally looks up to see Cassandra standing to the side, arms crossed and giving him one of her best disappointed looks. It reminds him of his sister, when they were younger and she caught him misbehaving. 

“Is everything alright,” he says, walking over to her, taking a damp towel from a servant to wipe the sweat off his brow. 

“Is it?” She replies. “Or are you forgetting something?” 

“I don’t—” Cullen cuts himself off, realization washing over him. “Maker’s breath. Are they— did they already leave? Did I miss it?”

“Yes,” Cassandra uncrosses her arms, but her face is still full of disapproval. “He looked devastated when they left. He stood there, alone, watching them ride away.” 

“I lost track of—” Cullen starts, but Cassandra cuts him off. 

“That isn’t good enough. This man is your husband now,” she says. “If you were not ready to commit you should not have agreed to this arrangement.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and she grunts in disapproval. 

“I am not who you need to apologize to.”

“I know,” Cullen says, rubbing his hands down his face. He glances over his shoulder at his soldiers, most are still training, but a handful of the ones nearby are obviously distracted by Cassandra and himself, only pretending to focus on the task at hand as they attempt to eavesdrop. “Can we do this somewhere more private?”

She leads him past the training dummies to the quartermaster’s store room. When they step in Ser Morris jumps a bit and goes to stand. 

“Lady Seeker! Commander! What can I do for you?” He says.

“You can leave,” Cassandra says, and he gapes at her a moment. She glares at him until he leaves. Once he’s gone she leans her hip on the table and turns to Cullen and waits for him to speak. 

“He’s—” Cullen lets out a tired sigh and pulls a chair over to flop down in. He leans his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Cassandra. I don’t know what I was expecting, but he’s so cold. Intimidating,” he chuckles humorlessly.

“He’s ten years your junior, Cullen,” she responds and he chuckles again. 

“Does that matter? He looks at me like I’m his enemy. Like I’m,” he lets out a frustrated grunt. 

“Like you’re a Templar?” She ventures. 

“Yes. Like he expects that any moment I could turn on him. Like he doesn’t trust me,” he says, leaning back in the chair, bouncing his leg nervously. “It reminds me of the mages in the Circles.”

“You are the only person who can change that. He has no friends here, he has only you, and you weren’t there for him.” Cullen looks up at her with a pained expression, and she moves over to gently place a hand on his shoulder. “It has only been a few days. If you want him to give you his trust, then you need to show him you are worthy of it. And you _are_ worthy, Cullen.” 

“Thank you,” Cullen says, placing his hand on top of hers for a moment. He hesitates and lets out a shaky breath. “He smells like lyrium,” his voice is small and strained when he speaks. “He smells like lyrium and it’s driving me crazy,” his voice cracks. “Not like other mages, either. Not how their breath smells like lyrium potions, but like it’s on him or in his skin.”

“He is one of the foremost authorities in the field of lyrium study,” Cassandra says. “It is part of the reason Leliana and Josephine pushed so hard for the arrangement, you knew this.” 

“I thought I could handle it. That, I don’t know, that it would be separate from our marriage. That I would continue to do my work, and he would do his, and it wouldn’t change anything. But now, any time I’m near him he reeks of it and I can’t stand it.” 

“He’s a prodigy, if anyone can find out what is happening with the Red Templars it will be him. He has also been making incredible strides in easing lyrium addiction and withdrawal.” 

“Is that why—” Cullen feels like he’s going to be sick. “Is that why they did this? Wanted me to marry him? So that he could fix me?”

“No, you know why having a stable alliance with Tevinter is important and the unity this marriage could bring. That is why you accepted it. His knowledge and preference for male company and his parent’s willingness to marry him off were what made him the best candidate, and the Inquisitor plans to use that knowledge. But if he can help you, why should he not?”

“If I tell him I stopped taking it I’ll have to tell him why,” Cullen says. “I’m not ready for that. Not with a man I barely know.”

“Then get to know him. Spend time with him,” Cassandra tells him. “He is your husband, he cannot remain a stranger to you forever.” 

“You’re right,” Cullen says, rubbing his eyes with heel of his palms until he’s seeing lights, feeling so, so tired. “I’ll talk to him tonight, ask him to have supper with me.”

“It is a good place to start,” Cassandra says, patting his shoulder, and starts to walk away. She pauses in the doorway before leaving. “Things will get better in time, give it a chance,” she says over her shoulder, then the door closes with a soft click behind her. 

In the late afternoon Cullen finds Oberon in the garden. The man is sitting alone on one of the stone benches in the sun, staring into the distance at nothing in particular. He looks tired, and Cullen feels a pang of guilt. A breeze blows through the garden and snaps Oberon from his daze. He pulls his cloak tighter around his body, at looks up at where the breeze shakes the leaves of one of the trees. Cullen approaches him cautiously, the way one would approach an easily startled animal. 

“Oberon,” he says gently and watches as his husband tenses. Oberon’s jaw clenches and he slowly turns his gaze towards Cullen. His cool grey eyes rake over Cullen’s body, burning him like the coldest ice. “Good afternoon,” Cullen greets anxiously. 

“Husband.” The way Oberon says the word makes it so sharp, like he’s turning it into a weapon, a dagger he’s ready to plunge into Cullen’s heart. Cullen shuffles awkwardly on his feet, and takes another cautious step towards him, but is unable to hold his eyes. 

“I was wondering if you’d like to join me for supper in my office today?” Cullen asks after swallowing his nerves, happy he doesn’t stumble over his words. 

“If that is what you’d like,” Oberon says, never peeling his icy gaze from Cullen.

“Very much,” Cullen says, wanting to at least try. “I also, uh, I wanted to apologize for not being there this morning.”

“You are the Commander of one of the largest growing armies in Thedas,” Oberon says before Cullen can continue, finally turning his gaze over to the herb garden the Inquisitor recently had planted. “You have many things to deal with. I’m sure you had very important business to attend to.” Oberon stands, fidgeting with the gold band on his left ring finger. It’s simple and sturdy and identical to the one on Cullen’s.

“I still should have been there,” Cullen says. 

“Yes.” Oberon voice is dismissive and he turns to face Cullen, looking down at him from the slight incline he stands on. “What time shall I meet you for supper?”

“I’ll have something prepared for us by seventh bell,” Cullen says, and Oberon nods, immediately turning to leave. Cullen thinks he should say something more, but he can’t. He’s left standing alone in the middle of the garden, feeling cold from more than just the breeze blowing through. 

Things don’t improve much at supper. Oberon seems completely uninterested in the meal Cullen arranges for the cook to make them, barely touching his food, instead relying heavily on his wine to carry him through the meal. His gaze is still cold, as he seems to stare right into Cullen’s soul. He barely speaks, and answers all of Cullen’s questions in less than five words. 

“Do you not like the food?” Cullen asks after a particularly deafening stretch of silence, most of which Oberon spends absently stirring his soup. “I could get us something else if you’d prefer.”

“I’m not hungry,” Oberon says, raising from his seat. “I will be retiring early tonight, I think.” And with that he ascends the ladder to their room. Cullen leans his elbows onto the table, dropping his head into his hands and lets out a world weary sigh, losing his own appetite. His husband hates him, he’s sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally taking a break from being mean to Oberon to be mean to Cullen for a bit!


	6. Chapter 6

Oberon wakes in the morning, wrapped up tight in all the blankets in the bed for warmth, his husband gently jostling him awake. Cullen is already dressed in his armor, and his curly hair has been tamed. He places a cup on the bedside table and Oberon hopes for a moment that it’s coffee, but it’s unlikely this far south. One would think in places where it so cold so consistently they would would have perfected hot beverages like cocoa and coffee, but like so many things of the south their drinks are plain and without taste. 

“Good morning,” Cullen says, not really looking at him. “The Inquisitor would like you to join us in the war room for this mornings meeting, you still have plenty of time to wash and get dressed. I’ll be waiting in my office, and we can walk there together, if you’d like that is.” Oberon nods, pulling the covers up and around his shoulders as he sits up. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, and pops the cricks out of his neck. “Alright. I’ll be in my office then. Also they’ll be fixing our roof today, so you won’t be able to return to the loft until tonight; hopefully they’ll finish it before sundown.”

“ _Gratias tibi,_ ” Oberon says, voice rough with sleep, before catching himself and switching to Common. “Thank you, I mean. I will be down.” Cullen nods, and climbs down the ladder. Once he is out of sight Oberon gets out of bed, pulling one of the smaller, softer blankets with him and wrapping it around his shoulders.

He picks up the drink Cullen left for him, a dark rich tea with a splash of milk in it. He inhales the warm steamy aroma of it while he moves over to his trunks, still not entirely unpacked from his move. He pulls out a pair of thick, warm trousers from the bottom of the trunk, and rummages around for a shirt, but most of his clothes are not well suited for southern winters. Instead he picks one of his lighter shirts, a simple midnight blue silk shirt with short sleeves and pulls it on, tucking it into his trousers, and rummages through his husband’s wardrobe. He finds a nice cream colored over shirt that contrasts well with his deep brown trousers and proves to be much warmer than most of the clothes he’s brought with him, if a bit large on him. 

He grabs a pair of brown gloves with golden sunflowers embroidered around the hem, one of his nicer pairs of boots, and a belt that matches his gloves. He lays the gloves and belt on the bed and moves over to Cullen’s meager vanity to wash his face. He still barely recognises himself in the mirror. Even as he carefully applies his makeup, going through the motions, not allowing people to see him as anything less than perfect, he only sees a stranger staring back at him. The man in the mirror looks so tired. 

He slides down the ladder when he’s done, and takes some satisfaction at how the loud landing of his feet on the ground causes Cullen to jump. Oberon wonders for a moment if the man was just too enthralled by his work to notice him coming down, or if Cullen had forgotten that he existed entirely. 

“Are you ready?” Cullen asks, his eyes lingering on his borrowed shirt, a blush tinging his ears. He clears his throat and licks his lips before going to speak again.

 _And, oh, isn’t that interesting,_ Oberon thinks. 

“We should get going. It’s best not to keep the Inquisitor waiting,” Cullen says, and the moment is gone. They do not speak again on their walk to the war room. Oberon considers taking Cullen’s arm for a moment; that’s what one does with their husband, no? Walks arm in arm with them, lets people see them together and lets them believe they are happy. He doesn’t. He doesn’t think it would be welcome. A pity. Cullen looks so warm, and he can’t stop shivering. For a moment it looks like Cullen might put his arm around him, but he withdraws, his arm just barely brushing Oberon before he lets it fall back to his side. 

When they get to the war room, blessedly warmer than the castle proper and Cullen’s rooms due to the lack of holes, the Inquisitor, Spymaster, and Lady Ambassador are already there. The Inquisitor nods at them in greeting when they walk in and the Ambassador smiles brightly at them. 

“Good morning, Commander, Lord Helianthus,” she greets. “How are you finding Skyhold?” She says, speaking directly to Oberon. He takes a moment to consider his answer. It isn’t as though he could tell them that he’s miserable, that he has no appetite, that all he wants to do is sleep, that he’s fairly sure his husband hates him. 

“The weather does not suit me,” he settles with. 

“Yes, it is quite cold this time of year. It must be quite the change for you from the warmer climate of Tevinter,” she continues. “If you’d like I could arrange for you to meet with our tailor later tonight to commission warmer clothing. I’ve heard that you have quite an eye for design. He’s quite talented, I’m sure you’ll find his work satisfactory.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” he says, bowing slightly, genuinely grateful. It will be nice to be warm again, even though he highly doubts anyone can be entirely warm in this Maker forsaken country. 

“Before then, we would like to address the role you will play in the Inquisition,” Leliana adds. “We are already making use of the ties your family gets us in Tevinter, but for your own personal contributions, we would like to use your knowledge with lyrium.”

“Your Tevinter connections have been invaluable with tracking Venatori movements,” Josephine adds. 

“But the red Templars still pose one of the greatest challenges we face,” the Inquisitor interjects. “If you could help us understand the source of their power it could give us the upper hand against Corypheus’ army.”

“We will supply you with a space to work safely and whatever materials you will need to continue your research,” Josephine promises. “We have connections with both Orzammar and independant lyrium smugglers who can supply you with the raw material you will need.”

“It would honor me to assist you,” Oberon says, suddenly feeling lighter at the prospect of having work to immerse himself in. Something to occupy himself with other than the crippling anxiety and sadness that grips him when he is left alone. 

“Will that be all, then?” Cullen says, voice stern—angry even—and all the lightness in Oberon is weighed down. 

“Yes,” the Inquisitor says, frowning at him before turning Oberon. “I can have someone show you to the undercroft. That is where you will be working, if it is satisfactory. You will be sharing the space with our blacksmith Harrit, and arcanist Dagna. She will be able to offer you assistance in your research, and as a dwarf will be able to help you work more safely with the lyrium.” 

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” Oberon says, watching his husband out of the corner of his eye. The man is tense and irritated, and it’s making Oberon feel uneasy. “I look forward to assisting your cause.”

“No, thank _you_ ,” Josephine says. “Your help will be invaluable.”

After a few more formalities Oberon is dismissed. He waits in the Lady Ambassador’s office as he was instructed, waiting for the scout who will lead him to the undercroft. In the moment he has alone he lets himself drop his pleasant facade. Just for a small moment he lets himself empty of everything, feeling hollow as a dying tree. He does not think of his husband’s stern and disapproving face, or the burning loneliness that has cocooned him from the moment he was left here by his family. 

For a moment he lets himself feel nothing, and just as soon as he does, he replaces his mask of indifference. He squares his shoulders, and holds himself tall and proud. He looks down at the scout who comes to lead him away, who is already giving him dirty glances from the corner of their eye from the moment they step into the room. They lead him down the hall and across the main hall, to a door in the corner of the room, down a long case of stone stairs to a large room with a wall open to a large drop off from the mountain. The view is gorgeous. Breathtaking really. Oberon would love it, if it wasn’t for the fact that the room was freezing.

“You must be Oberon!” A young dwarf says, seemingly appearing from nowhere. She pushes her welding mask off of her face and beams at him. “I’m Dagna, official arcanist of the Inquisition. I can’t wait to work with you. I’ve read some of your essays on the dangers and advantages of lyrium and you’re really smart. Like _really_ smart. I can’t wait to see what we can accomplish together!”

“I, yes, it will be… fun,” Oberon responds awkwardly, bending down to shake her hand. “If you are a dwarf, how is it that you are an arcanist, if I might ask?”

“It’s a long story,” she says, shaking his hand enthusiastically. 

“She’s gonna tell it anyway,” a gruff man says from the other side of the room. Oberon assumes he is Harrit, the blacksmith. 

“Don’t worry about him,” Dagna whispers. “He’s always a grump but he’ll grow on you. For now I’d love to show you around the workshop.” 

“Yes, please.” Oberon says, following her. It’s nice to have someone so willing to talk to him. And even nicer to have work to occupy himself. He feels almost like himself for a moment, even if that night it all washes away when he enters his rooms and his husband does not even look up to greet him. Part of him worries at what he could have done to rouse his husband’s ire. Another part of him can see it in his tics and fidgeting, the way he tries to ease away his headaches, the tired bags under his bloodshot eyes. The light smell of lyrium that barely clings to him, but refuses to fade all the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are people actually being nice to Oberon? That sounds fake, but okay.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so a few extra warnings for this chapter, suicidal thoughts and brief asphyxiation.  
> On the bright side I commissioned a fantastic [portrait of Oberon](http://vellomello.tumblr.com/post/144530947496/the-amazing-commission-i-got-of-my-oc-oberon) from the amazing [Cl2y](http://cl2y.tumblr.com/)

A few months pass and Oberon falls into an easy schedule of tedium. Every day around noon he wakes alone, his husband already off working. On days that he can, he goes to his lab in the Undercroft, but given that he works with lyrium, he can’t work hands on every day. When he can’t work in the Undercroft, he stays in his room instead, finally warm now that it has a proper ceiling. The materials he needs for his work are all written in Common—and worse, have handwritten notes in the margins; he spends all day deciphering what looks like gibberish. It's getting easier to read it, but it is slow work for him that leads to frustration more often than not. 

It's easy to lose himself in his work. It gives him brief moments to feel himself, to forget that he isn't back home where the sun is bright and warm. He snaps out of that daydream as his husband’s voice drifts up to him from the floor below. Cullen avoids him now more than ever. He understands, in part. Lyrium has been his main focus in study since he was fourteen; he’s well aware of what withdrawal looks like. He knows that being around him must be agonizing for Cullen, but it does nothing to ease his own bitterness.

Sometimes they take meals together. It is always silent and tense, and every time the food tastes more and more like ash. Oberon convinces himself that it’s just Ferelden’s aversion for anything flavorful. At night they sleep in the same bed, and while never fall asleep touching and still have yet to consummate their marriage, sometimes in the night they drift closer. Whether from Oberon's need for heat, or Cullen subconsciously seeking comfort from the terrors that plague him in his sleep. In these brief moments late into the night Oberon closes his eyes and imagines this is what it feels like to be in a loving marriage. By morning the spell is always broken.

In his sparse free time he trains or goes to the garden. The Inquisitor granted him a plot in the garden to use as he pleases. The smell of dirt and flowers and herbs relaxes him. It’s the only time he feels peaceful, like he can breath easy. Even with the nittering chantry sisters who infest the garden whispering behind his back it's easy to detach himself from his surroundings with the feeling of dirt under his nails. He wonders if the summer weather in Ferelden will be suitable to grow sunflowers. They have always been his favorite.

If gardening gives him peace, then training revitalizes him. It’s difficult for him to find time to use Skyhold’s training grounds more privately. There are always soldiers and recruits working to improve their skill, but after morning training the yard is generally free of Cullen and Templars, which leaves him feeling at least marginally more free to use his magic. It gives him a sense of self. Every push up, every fall of his foot while jogging, every successful hit of his staff on a training dummy is one more beat of his heart when he thought himself cold and lifeless. With every perfect spell cast he is a little more himself. 

It’s while he’s training that he sees them watching him. A group of templars who were training nearby. Now they’ve given up any pretense that they were still training, and are now jeering at him. He tries to ignore them, but the bolder they grow the more it his anxiety builds. He starts his cooldown and wraps up his training as if nothing is happening, and hopes that ignoring them and leaving will be enough to make them leave him alone. It isn’t, not for all of them. As he starts to leave he notices four of them trailing him. Far enough away that they could be discreet, if they weren’t in their armor. If he didn’t already expect them. 

He tries to breathe steady, to walk calmly, to not let them know he’s aware of them following. He sticks to the more populated areas of Skyhold, hoping that being near large groups of people will dissuade the templars from whatever they have planned for him, but they are persistent. He comes to the edge of the main courtyard and it is nearly empty. He’d have to pass through it to get to the main hall, where he might be able to lose his pursuers, but if not they could catch him in the hall to the rotunda. His other option is the tavern. He’s never been in it before, but he’s fairly certain there’s a path to the ramparts from inside. 

It would be dramatic to say the whole tavern stops for a moment when Cullen’s mysterious and aloof husband walks in, but it pretty damn near does. Barely anyone has seen much of him except the chantry sisters in the garden, quick to speculate about him and his deviancies, or in the training yard, where the soldiers gossip and spread rumors. It’s easy to pick apart the rumors, pick out the pieces that are just run over from common Tevinter stereotypes. Watching the way the man’s icy stare freezes anyone it lands on as he surveys the tavern has Bull wondering which rumors are true though. 

There’s something off about him. Bull’s not entirely sure what—he’s barely seen the man much himself—but the fact that he’s here is enough to tip Bull off that something isn’t right. Bull watches him carefully, not tipping off any of his companions to his distraction, as the ‘vint makes his way over to the bar and orders himself an ale. Barely a moment passes after he makes his way to the second floor of the tavern when a small group of templars come through the front door. That can’t be good, Bull thinks as they scan the bar. It’s obvious to anyone paying enough attention as to what they are looking for. 

By the time Bull makes his way upstairs Oberon is already gone, his ale deposited on an empty table, completely untouched. He could be hiding in one of the rooms, or up the next flight of stairs, but Bull is pretty sure he’s smart enough to have a better escape plan than that. He takes the shortcut through his own room to the battlements, and is unsurprised to find Oberon already on them, walking just a few paces ahead of him. 

He see’s Oberon’s shoulders tense when he realizes he’s being followed again, hands flexing at his sides in a way Bull has seen Dorian and Solas do when they are preparing to cast from their hands. 

“Can I help you,” Oberon says, turning to glare at Bull over his shoulder. He does a good job at keeping his face level. It’s easy to tell he’s had a lot of practice hiding his emotions, and if it wasn’t for that spark of fear shining just enough behind his cold gaze Bull would almost believe it. “My husband is expecting me, I don’t have time to dally.”

“I was just wondering if you wanted that ale you ordered, or if it’s up for grabs,” Bull says, and Oberon scowls at him before turning to face him completely. 

“What do you want.” His voice is dark and venomous, and his accent is thick as he hisses each word. 

“I wanted to make sure you’re alright,” Bull says, lifting his hands nonthreateningly. “I saw the templars, just wanted to be sure you got to your destination safely.”

“Why?” Bull’s not surprised by the measuring look he gets. The kid is obviously has his guard up. Kindness is an odd commodity in Tevinter. 

“Would you believe me if I said I was just that kinda guy?” That earns him a snort. “Do you know where you’re going? I could take you to Cullen’s office, it’s not far from here.”

Oberon thinks for a moment. His gaze slips past Bull too the door leading back to the tavern. After a few seconds he gives a curt nod, and turns to start walking away. Bull follows just a half step behind and to his right so that Oberon can watch him from the corner of his eye. Neither of them says another word as they make their way to Cullen’s rooms. When they get there Cullen jumps slightly at Oberon slamming the door open unexpectedly. His brow furrows in confusion when he sees Bull with his husband. 

“Good afternoon, husband,” Oberon greets him with his usual cool demeanor. “Have you eaten recently?” The question throws Cullen off a bit, so he just nods and looks to Bull as if the qunari has answers for him. 

“Good,” Oberon says, letting out a brief sigh, eyes drifting away from Cullen. There’s something unreadable in them, something he hasn’t seen in them before. “Good. Is there water upstairs for a bath?”

“Yes, I had the servants bring some up this morning,” Cullen doesn’t have time to say much else before Oberon starts making his way up the ladder. He hears Cullen say something to him, but it doesn’t matter. 

Once he’s on the second floor he closes the trap door and strips off his clothes, not caring where they land as he throws them on the ground. He fills their tub and heats the water with his magic. He steps into the water without checking if it’s too hot, and welcomes the sting of it on his skin as he lets himself sink into it. After he’s settled in he tips his head back and counts his breathes as he waits for his racing heart to calm. In the silence of his room he can hear Bull talking to Cullen beneath him. The Bull’s voice is harsh and low, and even though he can’t make out his words his tone is easy to understand. Angry, scolding, reminding him of his mother when she would catch him causing trouble as a child, but lacking the venom of her smooth voice. 

He sinks lower into the burning water, letting it lap in small ripples around his face until he lets himself fully submerge. His eyes sting, and he lets himself cry, bubbles bursting from his mouth as he sobs silently, hiding his sorrow in the water that surrounds him. He hates this. Hates feeling so miserable all the time. Hates having to feel afraid in the place he’s expected to call home. He wants to stay like this, under the water where no one can see him cry. Where no one can see his pain. He stays until his lungs ache for air, and makes himself stay longer. He wonders if anyone would care if he never came up. Water splashes violently from the tub as he bursts forward, choking and gasping for air.


	8. Chapter 8

After the near incident with the Templars Oberon stops training. He goes to the garden less. Mostly he keeps to the loft, his workspace, and the mess hall, careful not to deviate from familiar paths. All the work he had put into starting to build some semblance of a life here seems to disintegrate. He had known people here would hold little affection for him, that he would be an outsider, hated even. He had hoped that he wouldn’t have to live in fear in the place people had told him to call home. Hoped that he had left that feeling in Tevinter with his mother. Cullen would check in on him occasionally, especially on days when he didn’t leave the loft. He would sometimes bring tea or wine or small meals when he noticed Oberon wasn’t eating. They still barely spoke. Still never touched. Even with these small kindnesses Cullen still felt like a stranger to him. 

Oberon doesn’t know how much time passes when The Iron Bull comes to see him. He knows he’s given up on taking meals in the mess hall, now having servants bring his food directly to Cullen’s rooms whenever he decides he wants to try to eat. Days? Maybe weeks. Time seems to blur and rush away from him. Bull catches him as he’s walking back to his room from the Undercroft after working one day. He’s surprised to see Bull again, that he would actively seek him out. He’s even more surprised when Bull invites him to the tavern to meet his crew. 

Oberon isn’t entirely sure why he agrees to go. Why he deviates from his normal routine. Maybe it’s the prospect of escaping his lonely monotony, or maybe it’s because the Bull’s surprisingly unthreatening nature is reassuring. As they approach the tavern his skin crawls at the memory it invokes of the last time he was here. Templars on his tail and uncertain of his safety. He only half listens to Bull’s attempts at conversation until the man trails off when they reach the door. 

“You don’t have to come in if you don’t want,” Bull says to Oberon when he sees him hesitate. “I can walk you back to your room and we can try again later.”

It’s strange, ironic even, that one of the only people to show Oberon kindness is a seven foot tall qunari spy who could probably crush his skull with one hand if he felt like it. And yet, here he is, looking up at a man who calls himself The Iron Bull and feeling safer, more at home than he has in months. He swallows down his anxiety and nods for Bull to lead him into the tavern. Just like last time there are people who stop what they’re doing to stare at him. Others who gawk and whisper. He follows Bull towards the back wall, where they receive odd looks from Bull’s band of misfits. 

It’s awkward for everyone, as Bull introduces him to his Chargers. Some seem more willing to welcome him to their table then others, but the general consensus seems to be watching him warily from the corners of their eyes. It’s a treatment Oberon has become more than accustomed to in his stay in the south; he isn’t really phased by it, not anymore. Eventually Bull gets up to get himself a drink, promising to bring one back for Oberon as well. Left alone with these strangers he’s not certain what to do with himself. 

He chances an attempt at starting a conversation with Bull’s lieutenant, a soporati. The man is unimpressed with him, more interested in chatting up one of the pretty barmaids then humoring him in conversing in Tevene. The dalish elf, going by the ever original name of Dalish seems most interested in chatting with him about his magic and what specialization he is interested in, even though she insists she is not herself a mage. Their conversation dies out quickly when he asks in confusion why she carries a staff and she insists it a bow. He feels out of place, and the tavern feels so crowded, and though it’s packed full this time of day he feels just as alone as he did before coming. He slips away as the others chat and laugh with each other. He wonders if anyone notices he’s left.

He isn’t expecting to see Bull again after that, so it’s a surprise when a few days later Bull asks him again. Part of him wants to say no, that it won’t change anything, but he tries. It’s easier this time. He still receives some glares, but not as bad as last time. Bull’s men are less wary of him, and he wonders if that’s because they’re more familiar with him now, or if it’s Bull’s doing. This time they’re also accompanied by two of the Inquisitor’s inner circle, the Altus Dorian Pavus, a man Oberon had heard of in the past, but never shared similar circles with, and the Red Jenny by the name of Sera. 

Dorian is charming and funny, and it’s so refreshing to be able to talk to someone on equal grounds. Someone who he can relate to. Sera speaks and fast and dirty Common that’s nearly impossible for him to follow. That being said, she’s so energetic and bright that even though he can barely understand a word coming out of her mouth he can’t help but think she’s an absolute delight. A few times he has to stop and ask Dorian what she’s saying, but mostly he just nods in agreement to whatever she says. 

“You must miss your family,” Dalish says. “You and your brother seemed close.”

“Brother?” Oberon is confused for a moment. “Oh, you mean Philo. He is not my brother by blood. But yes, I do miss him.”

“You’ve got siblings though, right? Doesn’t make much sense for a Magister to marry away their only heir,” Krem says, more observant than Oberon gave him credit for. “Even when they’re, ya know.” He gestures vaguely at Oberon. He narrows his eyes in a glare at Krem, and can hear Dorian’s unamused huff of laughter behind him. “No offense intended. Just saying is all.” 

“Yes, I have a sister, Caridad, but she is too young for such travel. Perhaps when she is old enough I will write to her, but I doubt she’ll remember me by then.”

“You could always go visit,” one of the Chargers says—Oberon doesn’t remember their name. He stares into his drink for a moment, watching as the head of his ale fizzles out. He wonders about going home, even just for a visit. His family would host him to keep up their facade if they had to, but he is not truly welcome in his home, hasn’t been since his family discovered his preference for male company. He wants to see Philo again, and would like to see the kind of person his sister grows into. He hopes she’ll be a better person than himself. Hopes that she will find freedom from his mother’s cold anger without having to compromise herself the way he had for so many years. 

“Perhaps. I am married now, and will go where my husband goes. For now, while he is needed by the Inquisition he stays here, so here is where I will stay,” he says instead. He’s not sure what to make of the look Bull gives him. Pity maybe. He doesn’t spend much time thinking about it as the conversation thankfully moves on to something else. He doesn’t stay much longer, and Bull walks him back to his rooms again. He has trouble sleeping that night, spending hours wondering what will happen to him when the Inquisition no longer has use for him or Cullen, and they will be expected to live out their lives together. He wonders if he will ever feel at home. 

The third time Bull asks him to the tavern it feels almost normal. Only a few of the Chargers are there this time, half off on a mission. Sera is also there again, rambling excitedly about bees and a training dummy. The Inquisitions resident Grey Warden is there as well. The stoic man, Blackwall, nods at him silently as they are introduced. Oberon allows himself to drink more freely than he has in a long while. His mother was a mean drunk. She was a mean _everything_ though so that never served as much of a surprise. He’s happy that of many of the traits he inherited from her, this was not one of them. Instead he lets the alcohol fill him with a floating pleasant warmth.

The alcohol isn’t the only thing that warms him as he leans into Bull’s side, looping his arms around one of Bull’s splaying his hands on his impressive biceps. Bull has been so kind to him, so warm and open. He lets himself enjoy the warmth that radiates from the qunari, humming pleasantly at the feel of the rippling muscles flexing under his hands as Bull moves. 

“All right, think you’ve had about enough for tonight,” Bull says, gently removing Oberon from his arm. 

“Yes,” Oberon agrees, dragging his gaze from Bull’s chest to look him in the eye. “Walk me?”

Bull agrees to walk him, and is fairly sure what to expect as he follows Oberon to the second floor. He’s not at all surprised when the Altus gets sidetracked when they get to his room. He’s standing by Bull’s bed, examining the painting leaning against the wall next to it as if it’s some extravagant work of art and not some random piece Bull got paid with for some shit job for a stuck up marquis, and runs his fingers along the soft comforter on the bed as he turns to face Bull. 

“This is your room?” Oberon asks, even though he’s well aware of the answer. He walks over to Bull to stand inappropriately close, a smirk twitching it’s way to his lips. “It smells of you.”

“Uh, yeah,” Bull drawls as Oberon raises a hand to splay across his chest, leaning in closer with a playful smile, silver eyes lit from behind as he looks up at him. He pulls Oberon’s hand away from his chest carefully, and holding it between both of his own. “I don’t think you really wanna be doing this,” he says as gently as he can. Oberon’s expression slowly falls back to his cold neutral glare and he yanks his hand out of Bull’s soft grip. 

“Why not?” He demands. “You like men, you’ve made it no secret so why—” his face crumbles and he takes a wheezing, shaky breath, blinking away tears. “Am I not attractive to you? I am young, handsome, I could give you anything you ask.” He steps forward, swaying a bit, and bracing himself with hands on Bulls chest. “Why am I not enough?” He sobs. 

“This isn’t what you really want,” Bull says, steadying Oberon with a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s just get you to bed.”

“No. Don’t make me—” he sobs again, just barely holding back his tears, cursing in Tevene under his breath. “I don’t want to go back there. Please.”

“I know you’ve been having a hard time,” Bull says. “Cullen’s going through some shit, but he’s a good man—”

“Shut up.” Oberon's voice is frigid and sharp as it bites off his words. His face twists with growing anger as he speaks. “I don’t care what kind of man anyone says he is. He is nothing to me, has done nothing for me. I am his husband in nothing but name. I don't want to be where I am not wanted.” 

Silence falls heavy over them and Oberon can’t make himself look at Bull anymore. The anger and sadness drain out of him, leaning an empty void in their wake. He’s just so tired. He looks down at his hands and the perfect shine of the gold ring on his left hand catches his eye. It’s so plain compared to his other rings, no jewels or embossment or patterns. Subconsciously he twists it on his finger. He thinks for a moment about taking it off, throwing it across the room and never thinking of it again. Instead he drops his hands to his sides and takes a deep breath. 

“I… I think I should go,” he says. Bull nods, and opens his mouth to speak but Oberon silences him with a wave of his hand. “I can walk myself, I think. Thank you for bringing me here tonight. I’m sorry.”

Oberon enters Cullen’s office quietly, hoping to sneak past the man unnoticed if he is still up and working. Cullen isn’t there. Oberon ascends the ladder almost silently, hoping that perhaps he’s already sleeping. He isn’t. Instead he is pacing the floor, and lets out a relieved sigh when he see’s his husband. 

“Welcome home.” Cullen’s smile is soft and unexpected and only succeeds in making Oberon angry again. “I was starting to worry.”

“I am fine,” Oberon snaps. He walks over to the vanity, and starts to remove his jewelry. He hears Cullen sigh again behind him, and glares at him in the mirror when he starts walking over to him. 

“Oberon,” his voice is so gentle and calming and it makes Oberon want to scream. “I know I haven’t been a good husband to you. You deserve better, and I want to do better.” When he reaches Oberon Cullen slowly wraps his arms around him, giving him time to pull away. He doesn’t, even though every fiber of his being tells him to. “Please let me try to fix this.” 

“If that is what you want,” Oberon says.

“Please,” Cullen says again burrowing his face in his husband’s hair. “I can do better. You deserve better.

That night Oberon doesn’t sleep. Guilt and anger and disbelief and so many other emotions that he’s been stamping down whirl through him like a storm after a drought. It’s overwhelming and painful and every time he looks at his husband’s sleeping form next to him it only gets worse. How dare this man. How dare Cullen ignore him, mistreat him, make him feel so undesirable and unwanted, then decide that he can just say he wants to fix things. As if he can make the last few months of agony can just disappear with the wave of a hand. How dare he want to fix this after Oberon just tried to ruin it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever give Oberon a break? Eh, maybe.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s agonizing for Cullen to watch Oberon unravel in the weeks after Bull had escorted Oberon to their quarters. Every small step they’d taken towards Oberon feeling more comfortable in Skyhold had crumbled down around them after he’d been stalked by those Templars and Cullen can't help but feel responsible. It was his men, his Templars, and if Oberon hadn't lost them in the tavern… Cullen has seen the things untoward Templars can do to mages when left unchecked. He has done nothing but let his husband down. 

He had tried to help. Gave Oberon space when he needed it, tried to make sure he was eating, but after the near incident Oberon was more distant than ever. It’s starting to get better now. He’s started eating again, spends less time sleeping, started going out to the tavern and talking to other people. Cullen is happy to see him improving, but knows none of it is his own doing. He wants to do better by him, wants to make him feel safer, happier. 

Oberon had seemed skeptical when he promised to try harder for him. Cullen doesn't blame him, but he meant it when he said that Oberon deserves better, and that he intends to do better by him. They try. They take meals together, and try to talk. It's still tense, they are still wary of each other, but it's getting better. Slowly Cullen starts to feel less guilty about his growing affection and desires for his husband as well, the guilt a remnant of his Templar training. He doesn't look away in shame when he’s caught staring and lets his hand linger in their brief touches. Oberon seems more than willing to return his flirtations, smirking wickedly whenever he makes Cullen blush and stutter.

He can tell Oberon is trying as well, in his own subtle ways. When they don’t take meals together servants still show up around meal times with fruits and other snacks if Cullen doesn’t make it to the mess hall. He had also started brewing most of Cullen’s tea himself. Cullen sometimes misses the sweeter teas he often favored, but it is an easy trade for the teas that ease his headaches. The darker blend of black tea Oberon makes with royal elfroot, prophet’s laurel and arbor blessing helps the pain significantly more than anything else he’s tried. He hasn’t spoken with Oberon at all about his withdrawal, but he knows the man isn’t stupid, and suspects he’s known for far longer than he lets on. While he knows one day they will have to talk about it, he’s grateful that Oberon hasn’t brought it up yet. 

They also haven’t spoken about the incident with the Templars, not for lack of trying on Cullen’s end. He knows not to push the subject too much, but it grates at him to not be able to punish those responsible or prevent the situation from happening again. He can’t do anything public without drawing more attention to Oberon—possibly putting him in more danger. Oberon assures Cullen that he can take care of himself, and it isn’t that he doubts him, but he’s seen the things corrupt Templars can do to mages and it’s that knowledge that leaves him pacing the floor any night that Oberon is later than usual to come back to their rooms. 

Most nights Oberon goes to bed first—it doesn’t take long for him to start chastising Cullen for not sleeping enough—but it means that Cullen doesn’t have to worry about it very often. But some nights he works late in the Undercroft, or goes to the tavern to see Bull or Sera, or goes to the library to chat with Dorian late into the night or practice reading Common. Tonight is one of those nights, and while Cullen would rather stay in his office where he can claim he’s staying awake to finish his work and not because he is anxious about where his husband is, exhaustion wins out and he retires to the loft. 

He doesn’t intend to doze off. He doesn’t even remember getting into bed after washing and dressing down to long underwear. He must have fallen asleep for longer than he’d thought, because when the bed dipping under Oberon’s weight jostles him awake most of the candles have already burned out, leaving only a few to cast strange shadows around his husband. 

“Welcome home,” Cullen says, his jaw popping as he yawns. Oberon gives him a curious look, so he reaches out to gently take his hand. “I was worried about you,” he adds, with a soft smile. 

Oberon’s eyes drag down his face to his bare chest, and the man licks his lips before letting his eyes snap back up to Cullen’s. “That’s surprising.” Cullen blushes under his gaze. It’s not as though he’s never noticed Oberon looking before, but there’s something more heated to it this time. Something predatory. 

“It shouldn’t be.” Cullen’s eyes flutter shut when Oberon’s hand caressed down his cheek to cup his jaw. He swallows roughly before opening his eyes to stare into Oberon’s. “You are my husband. I want you to be safe.”

 

A smirk twitches Oberon’s lips, and there’s something unreadable in his eyes. “You don’t treat me much like a husband.”

“I, t-that’s,” Cullen tries to sit up, but Oberon shushes him, his hand sliding down to his chest to pushes him back against the bed and straddles his hips. “Andraste’s ass,” Cullen gasps, and Oberon hushes him again, this time by pressing their lips together, making Cullen gasp again. 

“Do you want me?” Oberon says, licking Cullen's lips, brief and teasing as he rolls their hips together. 

“Maker, yes,” Cullen chokes, running his hands over Oberon's hips, his sides, up his chest and across the vibrant floral tattoos on his shoulders. Hungry to touch every inch of him that he can reach.

“I want you to say it,” Oberon urges, catching his mouth in a searing kiss.

“Maker, yes, I want you. More than anything. Ever since I laid eyes on you,” Cullen pants when they break apart for air. He groans as Oberon continues to grind against him, and slides his hand up Oberon's thigh to reach for the laces that tie his breeches shut. 

“Then why not have me?” Oberon asks, and it’s like cold water spilling down his spine. He moves his hands to Oberon's hips to still him and is met with Oberon's icy stare.

“I can’t. No, I, I couldn't,” he stammers, fear prickling his skin. “You were so gorgeous, so fierce and cold and I was afraid.”

“Afraid of me?” Oberon asked as he stared down at him, eyes sharp and Cullen could feel them boring into him like daggers.

“No!” Cullen is quick to answer, but it it’s a lie, he presses his eyes shut tight and continues. “Yes. I was afraid of your magic, afraid you wouldn't want me because of the things I’ve done. Afraid of you. You terrified me.”

“Look at me,” Oberon gently urges, his hand tipping Cullen's chin up. When he opens his eyes Oberon is staring down at him with predatory eyes, grinning with teeth too sharp, and Cullen can hear screaming in the far distance. “You don't have to fear me,” he says, voice and face shifting and warping as he looms ominously over Cullen. “I'm not the monster in this bed.

“Maker’s breath,” he gasps, as he watches Oberon's face change above him. His sharp features turning soft and round, the bold curve of his nose turning to a cute small button shape, his ears stretching and tapering out. His skin turns a sickly purple grey and his eyes round and yellow, and suddenly Cullen is staring up as a twisted duplicate of Suruna, the mage that caught his eye in Kinloch Hold. No, not her, a demon, wearing her face to torment him.

“There is no Maker here,” the demon says, it's voice an eerie echo of both Suruna and Oberon’s. What was once distant screams now echos against the walls of his room, and his nose fills with the familiar stench of shit and vomit and burning flesh. “There is no one to forgive your sins. Only me, and your dark desires.”

Cullen prays, and the demon laughs above him. He can feel its breath on his cheeks.

“Did you really think he’d want you?” The creature laughs. “ _You?_ Mage killer,” it hisses in his ear. “You think you have the right to touch him? With hands covered in the blood of his ilk? He will never love you. You are not _worthy_ of his love.”

“Leave me,” Cullen cries, trying to wrench himself out from under the demon, only for it to pin his arms hard to the bed.

“Look at me,” it demands in Oberon's voice. “Cullen, wake up. Cullen!”

Cullen jolts awake, the only thing keeping him from tossing himself out of the bed are Oberon’s hands bracing his shoulders on the bed. Oberon is looking at him with eyes wide with... shock? Worry? Cullen doesn't have time to try and interpret his expression before it dissolves into his usual unreadable look of indifference and plops back down to where he was cuddled up to Cullen’s side, leeching away his body heat.

“You were having a night terror,” Oberon says calmly, but his hand is petting soothing circles on Cullen's side.

“I'm sorry,” Cullen sobs, and Oberon shushes him.

“It’s all right, just go back to sleep.”

“I can't,” Cullen chokes. “There was a demon.”

“There wasn't a demon, it was just a dream. Go to sleep.” Oberon muffles a yawn against Cullen’s shoulder and mutters something in Tevene under his breath before continuing. “It'll be ok, I'm here, I'll protect you,” and with that he drifts back off to sleep.

When his adrenaline and panic finally dissipate he feels exhausted. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the horrible images of Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall. He can’t make them go away, but counting the slow steady breaths of his husband make it easier to relax. ‘I’ll protect you,’ he said, and it probably shouldn’t be reassuring. There’s nothing he can do to stop Cullen’s nightmares, and nothing he can do to protect Cullen from the past that haunts him. But like this, feeling the weight of Oberon at his side he feels safer, warmer.

He presses his lips to the top of Oberon’s head, inhaling the smell of him. Dirt and flowers from the garden, and deep under that the smell of lyrium that gives him goosebumps. It is easy, sometimes, to forget how young Oberon is, but when he is sleeping like this in his arms he looks he looks so soft, and peaceful. This bitter, cold mage that barely speaks common and constantly complains about the weather. This glorious, beautiful, brilliant man who sings off key in the bath and brings new flowers into their room every week. He wonders what Oberon was like before all this. Wonders if he was happy. Wonders if he will be happy again, if he could be the one to make him happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was extra mean to Oberon in the last two to chapters, so I guess it's Cullen's turn again :)


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning Cullen wakes at daybreak, his nightmares from the previous night already fading from his memory. Oberon is sleeping contently in his arms, back pressed to his chest, blankets pulled tight around them. It’s easy in the cozy warmness of their room to drift in that pleasant place somewhere between the fade and the waking world. He wraps his arms more snugly around his husband, pulling him closer and burying his face in his dark, wavy hair. He sighs contently at the way their bodies fit so perfectly together, and Oberon stirs slightly in his arms, humming pleasantly, running his fingers gently along Cullen’s arm. 

“Good morning,” he practically purrs, pressing his ass back against Cullen’s growing morning wood. Cullen flushes, suddenly wide awake.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen says, getting out of the bed, blushing furiously. Oberon sits up, watching him curiously as he stumbles awkwardly to the wardrobe and starts dressing. “I, uh, It’s still early, you should, um. You can go back to sleep, if you’d like.”

“Okay,” Oberon says, rubbing his eyes, sounding confused and a bit dejected. “You could come back to bed, too,” he offers.

“I should really get to work, we could meet for lunch, though.” It’s hard to say no. The bed is warm and Oberon is deliciously sleep rumpled, but he’s not ready for this yet. They’ve only just started mending their small, damaged relationship, and have a long way to go. It’s not as though he doesn’t _want_ to. He wants. Oh Maker does he want, but fear scratches at the back of his mind like a distant echo, spilling chills down his spine as a ghost memory of his nightmare the night prior claws at him. 

“All right,” Oberon frowns, his face shuttering off again. “If that’s what you want.”

“I’ll see you then,” Cullen says, sighing as Oberon rolls so he’s facing away from him, pulling the blankets over his head. 

Cullen tries to work for a while, but has trouble focusing. He keeps thinking to the night prior, of Oberon soothing him after his nightmares, caressing him and promising to watch over him. Also of Oberon’s body pressed against him this morning, and the purr of his voice, rough with sleep and thickly accented. He wants to do something for him. Something to show him that he appreciates him. He wants to do something to make him smile. Maker, but he doesn’t think he’s ever even seen Oberon smile. 

He isn’t sure what to do. Romance isn’t particularly his strong suit. Devoting himself to the Templars from such a young age didn’t leave much room for it. Not that he was ever chaste, but other than some teenage fumbling in hidden away little alcoves, and some failed attempts at more intimate relationships later on he doesn’t have much practical knowledge to go from. When he spends about ten minutes staring at the same report from the Hissing Wastes without retaining a word of it he decides to seek out Cassandra. 

“You know romance,” Cullen says without preamble as he walks up to Cassandra where she is training. “You like romantic things, I mean.”

“Yes?” She says, wiping sweat from her brow on her loose training shirt. Panting as she sheaths her sword. “Most people do, do they not?”

“I, well yes, I guess so,” Cullen says. “But that’s not what I meant. More so, you know what things constitute as romantic, right?” 

“Just spit it out, Cullen,” she says, with an irritated grunt. 

“I was hoping you would help me think of something to do for Oberon. I want—” Cullen pauses, not sure what he wants to do. He takes a deep breath and shrugs his shoulders, unable to keep a shy little smile from creeping it’s way to his face. “I want to woo him.” 

“And you thought it would be best to wait six months after your wedding to do so?” She says. “Better late than never I suppose. Why the sudden change of heart? Not that I don’t approve.”

“I’ve been—” Cullen lets out a harsh sigh and plops himself down on one of the nearby benches. Cassandra sits with him and gives him a moment to gather his thoughts. “I haven’t been a good husband to him. I didn’t mean for it to get this bad. I never meant for him to struggle like he has. I just, after it got so bad, it was hard to find a place to start making it better. It’s my own fault for letting it get this out of control. I should have tried harder.”

“You are trying now,” Cassandra says, placing her hand on his knee. “That is what matters. Regretting the past will not improve your future.”

“He hates it here,” Cullen says. “I want to make him feel more comfortable. More at home, but I’m not sure how.”

“It’s difficult moving from the only home you’ve known to someplace so drastically different. Perhaps doing something to remind him of his home in Tevinter will make him feel less like he left everything he cared for behind. It doesn’t need to be some grand gesture, even the small things can carry a lot of meaning. A bottle of his favorite wine, a book in his mother tongue,” Cassandra says. “You could ask Dorian to help you if you need.”

“Thank you,” Cullen says, ideas already running through his head. He excuses himself, and stops by the kitchens to make a request with the chef. By the time he gets back to his rooms Oberon is already gone, presumably to work in the Undercroft. He pens a quick note for him, telling him that he won’t be making it to lunch, but would like it if they could take supper together in his office and sends it with a messenger. He can picture Oberon’s disapproving face at being told that he won’t make lunch, but he hopes it will be worth it. After that he sets to work cleaning his office and asking favors. 

Oberon is in a sour mood all morning. Whenever he felt any progress was being made with his husband, the man would push him away. It’s been six months. Six months in an unconsummated marriage. Templars need not take vows of chastity, and he has been assured Cullen’s attractions lay with both women _and_ men, but still nothing. No one could accuse Oberon of being humble about his looks. He knows he’s attractive. In Tevinter there were many who would have willingly fallen into bed with him, and he’s caught more than a few lingering gazes in his time in Skyhold. So why not Cullen?

It doesn’t help his mood when he gets a message that Cullen is canceling their plans for lunch. He glares at the note after he deciphers its contents. He doesn’t bother with a response, just burns the note with his magic, taking some satisfaction in watching it go up in smoke. Some petty part of him wants to ignore Cullen’s request to have supper together. He lets his anger simmer in him until the dinner bell tolls, and still isn’t sure he wants to see Cullen after his rejection this morning. 

Then he considers returning to their bed tonight. Thinks of giving up the comfort of sleeping with Cullen’s strong arms around him, and exchanging it for more of the tense silence and cold distance that has spanned their marriage. It took them a long time to get at least this far, and as much as he loves the idea of leaving Cullen waiting for him and picturing his face when he realizes that he’s been stood up, ruining what little progress they’ve made will not work in his favor. 

Oberon isn’t sure what he is expecting when he walks into his husband’s office. Perhaps the same drab Ferelden dishes they serve every night in the mess hall served with some tea and cheap wine. Or possibly Cullen having forgotten about asking him for supper in the first place and not having anything set out for them. It wouldn’t have been the first time the man did such a thing. What he doesn’t expect is to open the door and be greeted by the smell of rich spices and garlic.

It takes him a moment to process the scene laid out in front of him, but he is quick to reel in his surprise. Cullen is standing by his desk, which has been made up to be their supper table for the evening, smiling shyly at him, rubbing the back of his neck in that awkward way he does when he is nervous. The desk has been cleared of it usual trappings and is covered with a deep red linen tablecloth and decorated with white azaleas from the garden and candles. Oberon walks over to the desk, lettings his hand caress the soft linen of the table cloth before picking up one of the wine glasses and taking a sip, eyeing his husband, and the covered meal on the table suspiciously. 

“Aggregio Pavali?” Oberon asks, raising a brow at his husband. 

“Yes,” Cullen says, smile widening. He moves over to the chair he’s brought over for Oberon to sit at his desk with him and pulls it out for him. “Do you like it?” The man is staring at him with eager puppy eyes that throw Oberon off kilter for a moment. “I got it from Dorian. He said it is one of the best vintages from Tevinter, but I don’t know if you like sweet wines. I also don’t know much about matching food and wine so I’m not sure how it will pair with this meal, but I do hope—”

“What is this?” Oberon says, cutting of his husband before the man can ramble any further, narrowing his eyes at him. 

“Supper?” Cullen says, confused, as if this was completely normal behavior for them. Oberon rolls his eyes at him. “I thought maybe it would be nice to have some Tevinter food for once. It’s not much, our kitchens aren’t well equipped for such meals, but the cook was able to put together some curry, flatbread, spiced lamb. She didn’t have anything for any kind of Tevinter desserts, so just a custard pie for—”

“Why?” Oberon cuts him off again. 

“I, uh,” Cullen stutters. A grimace replaces “Do you not like it? I just thought that maybe it would…” he trails off, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I don’t understand what is happening,” Oberon says. “Why are you doing this?” 

Cullen is taken aback. His heart aches at the sight of his husband staring up at him with suspicious eyes. He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a loud sigh as he drops down into his chair. He wonders if Oberon’s suspicion at the simple kindness of a familiar supper is entirely his fault. If having failed to make him happy at all for such a long time is what leaves him so skeptical of a kind gesture, or if there have been other who had failed him so thoroughly in the past. Neither thought is comforting. 

“I just wanted to do something for you,” Cullen says, not able to look his husband in the eye. “I… I haven’t been good to you these past months. You’ve been suffering, and I’ve done nothing to—I don’t know,” He cuts himself off with a frustrated huff, leaning his elbows on the desk and letting his head fall into his hands, not quite able to find the words he needs. “I just want to make things right. To start over. I know that’s not possible, but I want to try.” He reaches across the table and takes Oberon’s hand, giving him time to pull away, if he so chooses. “I want to see you happy. I want to _make_ you happy.”

“I don’t know,” Oberon says after a moment, gently pulling his hand out of Cullen’s, feeling overwhelmed. “It’s— I, I don’t know.”

They eat in silence for a while after that. The food is good. Not perfect, Oberon can tell some of the ingredients were substituted, and it’s not as spicy as it would be back home, but still good. Cullen haplessly pokes at his food, bouncing his leg nervously, and Oberon slowly inches his hand across the table to take Cullen’s again. 

“Thank you,” he says, squeezing Cullen’s hand. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh snap, is that progress I see? Is Cullen finally pulling his head out of his ass? They even sort of _talked_.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter finally!

Oberon has never been much of a fan of Orlais, but after months spent in Ferelden it is like a breath of fresh air to stand in the Winter Palace surrounded by the lavish extravagance of the court, even if it is so gaudy and, well, Orlesian. He’s standing with Cullen on the landing awaiting their turn as the herald announces their procession. He barely suppresses a snort of laughter as Sera is announced under the alias Mai Bhalsych Of Korse. 

Oberon's brief laughter splits the air, and Cullen can't help but join in. Gently, he places his hand over Oberon's where it rests on his bicep and gives it a light squeeze. Oberon isn’t sure how to react to these shows of affection by Cullen. After so long being ignored and made to feel unwanted, hated even, he isn’t sure what he’s meant to feel. It’s been just over a week since their supper together, and that time has been littered with sweet notes and small gifts and flowers and kind smiles. He waits for Cullen to turn on him again, not yet willing to believe that this sudden change of heart will not come without a price. He doesn’t have much time to ponder it now before the herald starts their introduction. 

“Ser Cullen Stanton Helianthus-Rutherford of Honnleath,” the herald’s voice rings through the hall and Cullen and Oberon start slowly descending the stairs in front of them. It is so odd for him, even after all these months to hear his family name tied to someone else. “Commander of the Forces of the Inquisition. Former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall. Accompanied by his husband Lord Oberon Laurentinius Helianthus-Rutherford, Enchanter of the Circle of Minrathous, Son of Lady Magister Scylla Helianthus of Marothius.”

Cullen moves stiffly as they make their way to stand behind the Inquisitor. He made it clear long before they came here that he has little interest in Orlesian frippery and their toxic politics. It does little to raise Oberon’s hopes of being able to visit Tevinter any time soon, although he can’t entirely blame Cullen—it is Orlais after all. He gives Cullen’s arm a light squeeze, hoping that it’s a comforting gesture. Apparently it is enough for Cullen, who lets out a steady breath and gives him a small, nervous smile in return. 

After the Inquisitor has their introduction to the Empress, the pieces of their game are set. Every corner has hidden eyes and every is whisper is as sharp and dangerous as a dagger to the back. It almost makes him feel homesick. For a while he mingles with curious Orlesians who think they have some sort of power over him with their backhanded compliments and feigned charms. When he grows bored of them he decides to seek out someone worth having a conversation with. It doesn’t take long to find Dorian in the courtyard. He grabs two glasses of wine from a passing servant and saunters over to where Dorian stands by the fountain. 

“Orlesians are so… cute, with their little game,” Oberon says in Tevene, offering his fellow altus a drink as he stands next to him. 

“Hardly any assassinations, no duels to the death, not a single sex scandal yet. It’s outright boring,” Dorian says, laughing. 

“My seventh nameday party was more exciting than this, and there’s supposed to be a coup going on!”

“Yes, I’ve heard rumors of Helianthus affairs being particularly… red,” Dorian settles on and Oberon grins wickedly at him. 

“A funeral is just another excuse to have a party, no?”

“True,” Dorian laughs again and Oberon can’t help the smile at the pleasant sound. “And those garish masks of theirs. If you need to hide your face to play, how good at the Game can you be?”

Oberon and Dorian are still laughing together when Vivienne walks up to them, somehow managing to still be elegant in the dreadful Inquisition uniform. Oberon stands a little straighter when he sees her approaching. While logically he knows she doesn’t speak Tevene, he hates the idea of offending her, accidentally or not. 

“It is good to see you in your element, darling,” she says with a gentle smile. “Being cooped up in Skyhold doesn’t suit you.”

“It would be better to see me if I wasn’t in this outfit,” Oberon says, frowning. “Whoever decided that brown and red match should not be allowed to design clothing for anyone.” 

“Just be happy no one in the Magisterium can see us,” Dorian says, adjusting his cuff. “‘It’s designed to show a unity between Orlais and Ferelden’ Josephine says. As if anything good has ever come from mixing Orlais and Ferelden.”

“Imagine spending years elevating yourself in the Imperial Court and being made to wear this atrocity,” Vivienne says, but Oberon snorts and Dorian rolls his eyes.

“You can only complain so much, dear Madame, you look radiant as always,” Oberon says. “You are possibly the only person who could pull this off.”

“Thank you, darling, but I have battle armor more suited for a ball than this,” she replies, then after a moment of thought, “And I’d have to argue that our dear Commander looks quite dashing as well. As does Cassandra.” 

“Of course _they_ do,” Dorian says, scowling a bit again. “Red suits them.” 

“If I had my way, Cullen would be in white silk and black velvet. Golden ornamental armor. Not dressed like some sort of toy soldier,” Oberon huffs. “And I’d be in any color but this Maker forsaken red.” 

“If you had your way, darling, these outfits would never have been made,” Vivienne laughs. “But as it were, we must wear them with pride to show our allegiance to the Inquisition.” 

Oberon just hums his agreement and sips his wine. They only talk for a little while more before Vivienne’s attention is needed elsewhere, and Dorian is dragged away with the Inquisitor. On his own again and already bored with the odd looks and rude questions he is getting from the other guests he makes his way to where he last saw Cullen. He wonders briefly if he could convince his husband away from his post long enough for a dance. He glowers when he walks into the ballroom to find his Cullen surrounded by nittering nobles. As he makes his way to his husband he glares daggers at some of the stragglers of the group until they shuffle away uneasily. As the small crowd parts for him he plasters on a wicked smile and saunters over to his husband. 

Jealousy flares throughout him as he watches some Orlesian fop lean into Cullen’s space, putting his hand on Cullen’s lower back and whispering in his ear. Cullen blushes, and some of the surrounding women giggle and anger boils in Oberon’s stomach. When he reaches Cullen most of his admirers put some distance between themselves and his husband. A good portion of them at least have the courtesy of looking abashed, whether it be from shame, or from fear of Oberon himself, he doesn’t care. 

“Good to see you making new friends, my husband dear,” Oberon says as he slides his arm through Cullen’s. His smile is venom and he narrows his eyes at the man who was just touching his husband. “Everyone seems so friendly here. It’s very… tame, compared to back home. For example, did you know in that in Tevinter anyone caught stealing has their hands cut off? It is to make an example of them, so that everyone knows the risks of touching something that is not theirs. We like to make sure it is a lesson that does not need repeating.” Oberon can see the man blanch beneath his mask. Oberon smirks at him for a moment then turns to his attention to Cullen. 

“I do hate to steal you away from your little admirers, but if you could spare a moment of your time, husband,” he hisses the last word, squeezing Cullen’s arm not unlike the way he had when he noticed his discomfort earlier, but this time instead of being comforting, it’s a warning. 

“I, yes. If you’ll excuse me,” Cullen stutters to those of his admirers who stayed to watch their little drama before following Oberon onto one of the nearby balconies. It is blessedly empty, and as soon as the door swings shut behind them Oberon turns on his heel to face him. 

“Enjoying the party?” He says, his accent thickening, the way Cullen's noticed it does when he's upset. Not that he needed the hint with the way Oberon stares sharply at him with his icy gaze, or the not so subtle way he had threatened the man inside. 

“Oberon, what—” Cullen starts, stepping closer to him and reaching for his hand, but Oberon cuts him off. 

“Don’t touch me,” he hisses, face twisting into a scowl and Cullen recoils, staring at him with wide eyes. “I won’t be—” Oberon pauses for a moment, struggling to find words. “I know how these things work. I never expected this to be anything more than a marriage of convenience, but if you planned on fucking behind my back I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do it in front of half of the court. I will not be made a fool of.”

“What?” Cullen’s eyebrows snap towards his hairline and he flushes. “Is that what you think this is? I would never— I’m not—” Cullen’s face crumbles, settling somewhere between hurt and offended. “You really think I’d be unfaithful to you?”

“What else am I to think!” Oberon’s voice is too close to a whisper to be considered yelling, but his words burn with vitriolic rage. “You're a stranger to me. Obviously you don’t take interest in me, so why shouldn’t I believe you find it in others?"

“You could trust me,” Cullen snaps. Cullen finds himself stuck somewhere between pain and anger as Oberon glares at him, accusing and cold. It hurts to hear Oberon call him a stranger. He had thought that they were past that. That after all this time and how hard he’s been trying to make things right, that maybe Oberon thought better of him than this. Hoped that maybe Oberon could see his feelings, return them even. That this could be more than just ‘a marriage of convenience’.

“Why? What reason have you given me? I should have known better, why else would you be doing all those things for me.”

“What _things >i>?” Cullen almost shouts, but catches himself. “What have I possibly done to make you think I would cheat on you?”_

_“Those things! The food, the flowers, the notes,” Oberon says, exasperated, as if it should be obvious. “Why else would you be so kind, if not for some sort of ulterior motive?”_

_“Ulterior motive?” Cullen feels his heart breaking a little. “I just want you to be happy!” He does shout this time, and Oberon freezes for a moment, staring at him in surprise before his face twists with anger again._

_“ _Tace >,” Oberon snaps, stepping forward to glare at him. “Do you want someone to hear? This isn’t the place for this.”__

__“Oberon.” Cullen says, trying to reach for his husband again, determined to talk about this._ _

__“Don’t touch me,” Oberon bites out the words. “You don’t have permission to touch me. You don’t have permission to touch anyone else while you are married to me. You should return to your little friends, before they start to miss you.”_ _

__“Oberon, these people mean nothing to me,” Cullen says. “I would never cheat on you.”_ _

__“Not. Here.” Oberon hisses, then he turns to leave, leaving Cullen to stand alone on the balcony, not entirely sure what to do next. He isn’t ready for this conversation to be over, but Oberon is right, this is neither the time nor place. He lingers on the balcony for just a few more moments to gather his thoughts before returning to his post in case the Inquisitor needs him._ _

__Cullen barely sees Oberon after their fight and isn’t sure whether he’s grateful or disappointed. Once the assassin is taken care of Cullen is free to leave his post and is happy to finally take a reprieve from the incessant courtiers who seem intent on harrassing him this evening. Oberon’s little display earlier did well enough at keeping most of the nobles too bold for their own good from approaching him again, but it wasn’t long until a new group crowded around him with their false smiles and not so subtle flirtations. He’s happy to find one of the balconies over the maze garden empty of gossiping noblemen or lovers tucked away for a semiprivate tryst._ _

__He leans against the balustrade and lets out a weary sigh. Tonight has been exhausting. He knows he should be happy. The empress is dead, her assassin defeated, Gaspard is now emperor with Briala given the real power, and the Inquisition has secured the Orlesian alliance. But he’s too tired to celebrate. From where he’s perched above the garden he can see Bull leading Dorian through one of the garden mazes. He knows he should leave, or turn away at least, but there is something so soft, so warm about the way he slides his arms around Dorian. They dance, and next to Dorian Bull seems clumsy, even though he follows the moves perfectly. He doesn’t need to be in earshot to tell that Dorian is laughing._ _

__He’s about to leave, feeling guilty for spying on such a tender, private moment, but when he goes to turn away he is surprised to find Cole next to him. He startles at first, reaching for his a sword he doesn’t have out of reflex, but forces himself to calm down once he recognizes the spirit. He’s still not entirely comfortable with the Inquisitors decision to keep the ghostly boy around, but he’s proven his loyalty as much as everyone else in the inner circle. That doesn’t do anything to ease Cullen’s worries, but it needs to be enough, for now at least._ _

__“He used to love parties like this,” Cole starts, voice distant and dreamy. “Flowing wine and dizzy dances. Lies, scandals, blood and secrets. Being lead to a hidden alcove by a handsome stranger. His first kiss, too much too fast but more than he should ask for so he took it for what it was and they never spoke again.”_ _

__“You shouldn’t be telling me this,” Cullen says, a little taken aback, glancing back to where Bull and Dorian are dancing. “I shouldn’t even be seeing this.”_ _

__“Not him,” Cole says, pausing, as if trying to sort whatever pains are jumbled in this mind. “He loves music, but isn’t good at it, so he dances instead. Or he did, he wants to. You should ask him.”_ _

__“I don’t—” Cullen starts, confused, but then it dawns on him. “He doesn’t want to see me, least of all dance with me.”_ _

__“Maybe you should ask him what he wants,” Cole says, and then he’s gone, leaving Cullen alone on the balcony yet again._ _

__Oberon is chatting with Vivienne and a few of her Orlesian contacts when Cullen finds him. He looks more comfortable here. Elegant, in control, just the right amount of aloof and impartial without coming off as entirely disinterested. The room laughs when he laughs, insults die on wicked lips at the slightest cold glare from him. He is in his element, and there isn’t a doubt looking at him like this that he was a cold and formidable Magister in the making before he was sent here. It’s both intimidating and compelling._ _

__Cullen puts on his most casual and hopefully charming smile as he inserts himself into their group without drawing too much attention. Cautiously he puts his arm around Oberon’s waist. Oberon spares him a look, not outwardly hostile, but wary, warning. Cullen takes a steadying breath before speaking._ _

__“I do hate to interupt, but would it be possible to steal my husband away for a moment?” He doesn’t miss the look Oberon and Vivienne share, one that conveys something, a brief conversation with only their eyes that is only between them. After that look Vivienne turns to him, her reply bright and warm._ _

__“But of course dear,” she says, and Oberon narrows his eyes at her as he gives her a tight smile. “Tonight has been an immeasurable victory for both the Inquisition and Orlais. Don’t let us stand in the way of your celebrations.”_ _

__“Don’t be silly,” Oberon says. “There is still much to do, and it would be rude to leave now, in the middle of your story.”_ _

__“Nonsense, don’t let us keep you darling,” Vivienne replies with an airy laugh._ _

__“Thank you, my lady,” Oberon says, smile just a hint too tight, and eyes cold and sharp. He turns those dagger eyes on Cullen when he speaks again. “Lead the way, husband dear.”_ _

__They walk arm in arm as Cullen leads Oberon back to the balcony, and Cullen can’t help the nervous racing of his heart or the way his palms sweat. Beside him Oberon jaw is clenched and he glares ahead of them. It’s somehow reminiscent of walking to the altar on the day they married. The balcony is thankfully still empty by the time they get there, and Cullen pulls the doors shut behind them_ _

__“What is this about,” Oberon crosses his arms and glares at him._ _

__“Dance with me,” Cullen blurts out before he loses his nerve, and Oberon slowly raises his brows at him._ _

__“Excuse me?”_ _

__“I mean, please, my Lord, may I have this dance?” Cullen says more calmly, bowing, but Oberon just continues to stare at him. “Please?”_ _

__After another moment, that feels like an age, Oberon gently places his hand in the one Cullen holds out to him. His eyes are still accusing and wary, but he allows Cullen to pull him close. Cullen tries to lead at first, but Oberon takes the lead from him, guiding them more gracefully._ _

__“I’m sorry,” Cullen finally says, and Oberon lets out a disbelieving huff._ _

__“You will need to be more specific than that, _mī marītulus_ ,” Oberon says, and Cullen sighs, pulling back so that he can look his husband in the eyes. _ _

__“For upsetting you tonight, for not being more frank with those flirting nobles about my disinterest. For everything you’ve been through since you came here, to Skyhold, I mean. That I haven’t been a good enough husband to you, that I haven’t protected you like I vowed to,” he reaches up and cups Oberon’s cheek, sending a quiet prayer of thanks to the Maker that he doesn’t pull away. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to make you happy.”_ _

__“Are you happy?” Oberon asks, and it isn’t what Cullen was expecting. He shakes his head no, and Oberon smiles sadly. “I don’t want to keep doing this. I don't want us to hate each other and be miserable in our marriage. If-- if you want someone else, if it would make things easier, it’s okay, but--”_ _

__“I don’t want somebody else,” Cullen isn’t sure when they stopped moving. “I want us to be happy, together. If you want it as well.”_ _

__“Do you think we could be? That we could make this work?”_ _

__“Yes,” Cullen says. “I think we can. I _know_ I could be happy with you, if you could be happy with me. But I need to know it’s what we both want. Tell me we can make this work, and I will believe you.”_ _

__“I think, maybe, it is worth trying for.”_ _


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man its been ages! I've had this chapter done for a while but wasn't quite happy with it, I'm still not sure how I feel about it but I don't want to poke at it anymore and risk ruining it. It's a bit fluffier then the rest of the fic thus far, a little break after all the angst I piled up in the last few chapters. Idk when I'll get the next chapter out but I have the entire fic outlined, just have to finish writing it......

The Inquisition is bustling with renewed energy when the Inquisitor and their inner circle return from Halamshiral. News travels fast with Leliana’s ravens, and with word of the Inquisitor’s success, the confirmed safety of the inner circle, the solidified alliance with Orlais there is an influx of new support. The Inquisitions victory revitalized the vigor and belief of every worker, soldier and servant, old and new. It doesn’t hurt that the first week after their return is the first true week of summer, bringing with it a warmth that hasn’t touched Skyhold since the Inquisition first arrived.

It takes Cullen a few days to work through the paperwork that piled up for him while he was away, along with the new reports, requests, and letters that poured in after his visit to the Winter Palace. For the most part he’s stuck in his office, only leaving for war table meetings and morning training for the recruits. Oberon brings supper for him every night, and occasionally keeps him company in the evenings, sorting through the letters Cullen receives from Orlesian dignitaries who are apparently not done harassing him. 

“Oh, Commander,” Oberon teases one night as he reads from one of the letters in an Orlesian accent that manages to sound doubly ridiculous layered on top of his own. “You were so striking at the ball. I’ve never seen a man so... firm, so sturdy and alluring. I knew the moment our eyes met across the hall that there was something there. At such a drab soirée you were the single beacon of glory, and though we didn’t speak I knew I must have you.”

“Enough,” Cullen says. “Each of those letters is more ridiculous than the last.”

“So you do not want to hear of how warmth spread through...” Oberon squints at the name signed on the parchment, his lips twitching in a mischievous smirk. “Madame Etienne like ‘a passionate reawakening of her youthful desires, like a second coming of age leaving her flushed and panting in the night after she’—”

“No! Maker, no. Please stop,” Cullen says, laughing and rubbing his eyes to try and rid himself of the mental image. “I can’t think of anything I would rather hear less about.”

“Good,” Oberon says, and the parchment goes up in flames in his hand, making Cullen jump. Oberon rarely uses his magic around him, and he’s far from used to it. Oberon picks up another parchment from the same pile and skims a few lines, lips twisting into a scowl before he rips it in half. “Tactless,” he mutters under his breath. “If her heart is so set on being your mistress you’d think she would try to be at least a little charming.”

“Charming or not, a mistress is the farthest thing from my mind,” Cullen says earnestly. “You know that.”

Oberon just hums in response, eyes measuring as he matches Cullen’s gaze. He stands and stretches, grabbing the pile of love letters before making his way towards the ladder. “Don’t be up too late, you haven’t been getting enough sleep recently. What use will you be if you work yourself to exhaustion?”

“Of course,” Cullen replies, smiling to himself. It may not be the most heartfelt worry anyone has shown him, but it’s enough that he can tell that Oberon cares, even if only on his own terms. 

The next day is easily the nicest of the week so far. Cullen is joined in morning training by Cassandra, Bull, and even Cole, all helping with the recruits, affording him a chance to get more hands on training himself in a way he hasn’t been able to do almost since they first came to Skyhold, due to the rapid growth of their army. After a particularly exhausting demonstration with Cassandra he moves to the sidelines for a short break. 

He spots Bull at the edge of one of the sparring rings, cheering for whoevers inside and makes his way towards him, lifting his shirt to dab sweat from his face. Bull lets out an appreciative whistle when he sees him coming closer and Cullen is happy that he can blame the heat and his exertion for his blush.

“Good to see you keeping in shape, Commander. Don’t need you getting all soft and lazy just ‘cause they have you behind a desk all day,” Bull says, turning his eye back to the ring, and Cullen follows his gaze. Cullen’s sure he had some witty retort he was going to throw back at Bull, but his mind skids to a halt when he sees who is in the ring. Oberon and Dorian are circling each other with their staves, shirtless and sweating. Dorian says something to Oberon in Tevene and the man throws his head back in laughter, and Cullen’s heart flutters. He’s never heard Oberon laugh like that. He’s fairly sure he’s never actually heard Oberon laugh at all before, and he knows he’s never seen him smile like he is now, grinning at Dorian as he shouts back his rebuttal. 

In the next moment Oberon is diving out of the way of an ice blast Dorian casts at him. He rolls and is back on his feet in an instant, his muscles flexing under his skin as he moves to cast a fireball that Dorian easily dissipates. They continue like this, basic fire, ice, and lighting spells being cast, dodged and blocked. When they get close enough for it they fight with melee, showing off impressive staffwork that one wouldn’t find in a southern mage. 

Cullen has trouble dragging his eyes away from his husband. It isn’t as though he’s never seen him without a shirt before. They haven’t been particularly shy about dressing or bathing around each other for a long time, but seeing him like this feels different. The way his muscles work under his dark skin, the vibrancy of the floral tattoos that cover his back, shoulders, and arms glistening with sweat, the abstract lines and glyphs tattooed on his forearms and hands almost glowing as he casts. The way he laughs and smiles and his thick, rich voice ringing in smooth Tevene as he and Dorian banter all leave Cullen breathless. 

“Enjoying the show?” Bull asks from beside him, watching him out of the corner of his eye with a knowing smirk. Cullen swallows before he can talk, mouth feeling too dry and skin feeling warm from more than just the heat of the sun. 

“They are quite impressive,” he says, and Bull barks out laughter. 

“That’s nothing, they’re holding back. Dorian is at least, and Oberon is just mimicking him to match. Probably don’t want to scare all the Southerners by showing them just what the ‘evil ‘vint mages’ are capable of.” Before Bull says any more or Cullen could respond one of Dorian’s spells knocks Oberon’s staff out of his hands, the latter faltering only for a moment to look at his opponent with wide eyes before launching himself at Dorian, tackling him to the ground. 

Bull whoops, grin splitting his face, his eye sparkling like a kid who just found the cookie jar. Cullen can’t entirely blame him; watching Oberon and Dorian rolling around like that together, no one would be convinced if he tried to blame his current flush on the heat. After a few moments of grappling on the ground Oberon has Dorian pinned beneath him, grinning down at him looking very pleased with himself. He lets out an uncharacteristically inelegant yelp when Dorian bucks his hips up, throwing him off balance enough to toss him off. 

“This is the best day ever,” Bull sighs, almost reverential. Part of Cullen wants to chastise him, but he’s fairly certain that the image of Oberon straddling Dorian’s hips, both of them panting and glistening with sweat won’t be one he’ll be forgetting anytime soon. Their spar only lasts a few moments longer, consisting mostly of the two of them rolling around together in a way that is definitely not helping Cullen get his mind out of the gutter before they call it a draw. 

Once they are both standing Oberon leans in to whisper something to Dorian. Dorian nearly doubles over laughing and Oberon smiles at him, and for the first time Cullen notices he has dimples. Somehow that smile leaves him more breathless than anything that happened during the spar. When Dorian leans back in to whisper a reply to him Oberon’s eyes snap over to Cullen, his grin slipping into sly smirk. 

“Bold and bright, burning hot like the fire he controls, hard muscles under soft skin,” Cole says suddenly sitting on the fence next to Cullen. 

“Maker’s hairy ass!” Cullen shouts after his heart skips a beat. 

“Too much of not enough. Wanting, waiting, wanton.” Cole continues, and Cullen blushes again. “He wants it too.”

“Was that for you or me?” Bull says. They don’t have time to figure out before Oberon and Dorian are standing in front of them, not that Cullen particularly wanted to dig any further into it. 

“ _Avanna, Compassio_ ,” Oberon says, bowing slightly to Cole who beams back at him. 

“ _Avanna_!” Cole chirps. “ _Cōgitat tē es pulchrō_ ,” he says slowly, thinking hard about each word before he says it. A slow grin breaks across his face when Oberon purses his lips in response, and then he vanishes. Dorian’s eyebrows shoot up for a moment in surprise before he processes what Cole just said and smirks at Oberon, earning an icy glare, before turning his attention to Bull. Cullen’s brow furrows in confusion, looking to Oberon questioningly, but neither his husband nor Dorian seem like they intend to translate.

“Enjoy the show?” Dorian purrs, leaning on the fence in front of Bull. 

“You know I did, Kadan,” Bull says, his voice low, and he leans on the fence as well. For a moment it looks like they might kiss but Dorian ducks his head away in the last second, clearing his throat awkwardly. The smile Bull gives him is soft, warm, and just barely there. He leans away, giving Dorian a bit more space, but still just close enough that anyone paying attention can tell there is something intimate there. Oberon is watching them out of the corner of his eye. For a moment there is something in his face, something bitter and vulnerable, but as soon as it is there it’s gone.

“Hello, husband,” Oberon says, his smile is pleasant enough, but there is something unreadable in his eyes and his posture is just a bit too stiff. 

“You looked, good. I mean you’re fighting was… good,” Cullen stammers out, silently cursing himself. 

“My fighting was good?” Oberon parrots, his lips quirking into a more genuine smile. He leans forward, propping his elbows on the fence that separates them. Cullen’s gaze drifts to his shoulders, admiring the brightly colored flowers that stretched across his muscles. “Do you enjoy watching?”

“I, uh,” Cullen clears his throat, and tries to clear his mind of the images of Oberon and Dorian together that it fabricates for him. “I suppose.”

“Perhaps you would enjoy it more to participate,” Oberon says, smirking, his voice low and sultry. Cullen feels himself turning red. “We could practice in private if you’d like. Or we could just do it here, where everyone can see, if that’s something you’d enjoy.” 

“I, oh Maker,” Cullen’s head is spinning a bit, tripping over his tongue as he tries to find words. Oberon is grinning at him, playful and mischievous. “Yes. I mean we could s-spar. Together. Here. Or wherever. Whenever you want. With m-me.” Oberon’s grin widens with every word he stutters out. 

“Should be a good show,” the Inquisitor says, leaning next to Dorian and Bull now, all three of them watching in varying degrees of amusement and delight. “Sadly, I think we’ll have to wait to see it another day.” 

“Inquisitor!” Cullen says, standing up straight. “What can I do for you?”

“We’ll be having a War table meeting in a few hours, take your time wrapping up training. I expect all four of you to be there.”

“Me as well?” Oberon asks. 

“Yes. I’ve considered your request for a live red lyrium specimen to assess, and it’s too dangerous to bring one here, but we’ve gotten reports of a red lyrium infested port on the Storm Coast. We already have pretty good standings at the coast, I think it would be a good opportunity for you to accompany my party, set up camp nearby with whatever assistance and equipment you will need, and we will retrieve you _one_ live red Templar.” Oberon’s eyes light up as the Inquisitor talks, and Cullen feels anxiety twist in his chest like a knife. 

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” Oberon says, bowing slightly. “I promise it will be worth it.”

“Sounds dangerous, Boss,” Bull says. 

“When has that stopped us before?” The Inquisitor replies, turning back to the keep proper. “Meeting’s in two hours, don’t be late.”

Cullen’s throat feels tight. He is well aware that Oberon has already dealt with raw lyrium, both red and blue, and thus far hasn’t suffered any side effects, but the idea of him near one of those red lyrium monsters terrifies him. The risk of him being tainted by them, of bringing that taint back with him. His jaw is clenched tight and he has a white knuckle grip on the fence to steady himself. He can see Oberon watching him warily out of the corner of his eye.

“I’ll have a servant bring fresh water to our quarters,” Oberon says, placing his hand over Cullen’s on the fence. His voice is neutral, but his eyes are still measuring and sharp. The moment they had is passed, and the jovial mood they shared passed with it. “Finish up here, and we can wash up before the meeting.”

“Yes,” Cullen says, voice rough. He swallows and sounds more himself when he speaks again. “I’ll be up soon.” Oberon nods, and before he has a chance to move Cullen turns his hand so he can take Oberon’s briefly, lifting it to his mouth so he can kiss his knuckles. Oberon spares him a small smile, then starts making his way towards the battlements that lead to their rooms. Cullen stares after him for a moment, before he makes his own way back to the bulk of the training recruits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cole has been helping Oberon in reading more easily in common, and in return Oberon is teaching him Tevene.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit, I'm back. New chapter. I'm just as surprised as you are.

There were many reasons Oberon rued the idea of coming south when he was married off. He had spent hours on the ship across the Waking Sea listing them to himself. When they docked the weather quickly found its way to the top of that list.

He hates the cold, he hates the humidity, and he hates rain. Now, at the Waking Sea again he’s stuck camping in the Storm Coast which is more than living up to its namesake. It wouldn’t be so bad if the rain wasn’t near freezing. By the time they finally set up camp for the first time after arriving he feels like he is soaked to the bone. He can’t even keep track of how long he’s been shivering, but it’s starting to become difficult to remember a time when he wasn’t.

“You look like a drowned nug, and twice as miserable,” Varric says, sauntering up to Oberon after they leave the camp, and Oberon glares at him out of the corner of his eye, pulling his cloak more snugly around himself. As if it would make any difference, the thing is already half soaked through itself. 

“Come on guys,” Bull says, seemingly unphased by the steady rain as it washes over him, but Oberon can see the uncharacteristic stiffness in the way he walks, his bad knee locking up from the cold. “It’s not that bad.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dorian says, and Bull puts his arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer as if to shield him from the rain. “I would be entirely content to never see the bloody Waking Sea again. Never been more sick than when I crossed it. The rain doesn’t help either. It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t so cold. I don’t understand how these southerners stand it.”

“What's the matter? Not enough slaves around to rub your footsies?” Bull teases.

“My ‘footsies’ are freezing, thank you very much.” 

“Guess I’ll just have to warm you up later,” Bull growls, voice low and rough. Oberon lets out a dissatisfied huff, and perhaps he should feel bad for how it causes Dorian to frown and move just a fraction away from Bull, but he finds himself too cold and miserable to care. In fact he feels a bit satisfied spreading his misery to the others. He chooses to ignore the jealousy that settles under his ribs at seeing those two so openly and freely affectionate with each other, just as he chooses to ignore the disappointed look Bull shoots him.

“Someone's just grumpy because they don’t have their commander in shining armor to keep them warm, isn't’ that right Smiley?” Varric says. 

“Smiley? Is that the best you can do? I expected better,” is all Oberon is willing to reply with. Things have been going far better with Cullen lately, but as much as he’s been complaining this entire trip he is quite enjoying some time away from both his husband and Skyhold. He never choose to be there, and even though things have been improving it's nice to remember he doesn't have to be stuck there forever. 

“It’s a work in progress,” Varric says, pointedly slowing his pace, and Oberon follows suit until they are both a fair distance behind the rest of the Inquisitors current entourage. 

“You should consider buttoning up your jacket, your chest hair is beginning to smell like wet dog,” Oberon says once they are far enough back to warrant some privacy.

“That's just the smell of Ferelden fresh air,” Varric says before trying to shake some of the dampness from himself to no avail. “How’re you holding up kid? You sure this is a good idea? Red lyrium’s some serious shit, you haven't seen what it does to people.”

“I assure you I have,” Oberon says, bristling. “I have seen the Red Templars. I have read every written account pertaining to red lyrium, including the research you had sponsored on the subject, and I have studied samples of it. I have spent years of my life studying the effects of lyrium. There is no one more qualified in all of Thedas to decipher the nature of this red lyrium and those affected by it than I am.”

“I don’t doubt that. This shit just makes me nervous, you weren't in Kirkwall, you didn’t see what it did to Bartrand and Meredith. Just be careful is all I'm saying.”

“I understand your concern, but I am not like them. I know what I am doing and you should not second guess me,” Oberon says, glaring at Varric from the corner of his eye. “Why did you want to talk?”

“What, I can’t just be worried about my friend?” Oberon’s glare just intensifies. “Right. Remind me to base a villain off you in my next novel. Well, here’s the thing, you’re the lyrium expert here, and I’ve got this friend who has a bit of a, uh, problem with lyrium.” 

“I’m sure I could guess which one,” a smirk twitches at Oberon’s lips. “Magister Danarius was quite proud of his work, though he wasn’t so foolish as to openly brag about it. I have tried looking into and—don’t look at me like that,” he snaps at the measuring, narrow-eyed look Varric gives him. “It’s not as though I’d try to recreate the ritual, but understanding it could give us a greater understanding of lyrium as a whole, and perhaps with a willing participant—”

“Don’t go there kid. Trust me, you do _not_ want to go there.”

“Perhaps you are right. The magisters behind the ritual are very secretive, and the ones who aren’t all turn up dead for some reason, with large, bloody, gaping holes in their chests.”

“Funny how that happens,” Varric smirks. Then his face turns more serious. “Well, like I was saying, he’s got a pretty unique condition and I was wondering if you, being the lyrium guy, had any helpful insight on it.”

“Perhaps, if I could study his condition personally, but as it were I do not have much to go on other than word of mouth and faulty written accounts.”

“Somehow I figured you’d say that,” Varric sighs, just as the Inquisitor yells, “Keep up you lot, I don't need you getting picked off by darkspawn for straggling too far behind.” 

They make it to their destination in a few hours, the sturdy walls of the old dwarven port holding strong, even under the corruption of the red lyrium, snaking through it like poison in the veins. They clear out one of the chambers towards the front of the ruins, and less than a day later Oberon’s assistants arrive with the necessary equipment, and all there is left to do is wait for the Inquisitor to clear the rest of the port of dangers, and bring him his specimen. The mages and dwarves at his disposal all skitter about anxiously, murmuring about the inhumanity and dangers of testing on a live subject. Only Dagna shares his enthusiasm over the unique opportunity they have, nearly shaking with anticipation as she explains to the mages why it’s important they use anesthetics as opposed to relying on sleeping spells and droughts to keep the subject sedated. 

Eventually the Inquisitor returns and the anxious energy of the room can be put to use. 

“Be careful, he’s small but feisty, it was not an easy feat taking him alive,” they warn, and Oberon can read the skepticism on their face. They sigh, and worry lines furrow their brow. “Don't make me regret this, Oberon. People are talking, saying this is inhumane, calling it torture. You're already unpopular amongst the Fereldans, and I don’t want this to have a negative impact on the Inquisition's reputation.”

“Do not worry yourself. The ends will be well worth the means, and that _thing_ is barely a person anymore,” Oberon says. “You kill it’s kind in droves. This is hardly any different.”

“And _that_ is hardly reassuring,” the Inquisitor mutters before turning to leave. “Just keep your wits about you, I doubt Cullen would forgive me if anything would happen to you.” And with that Oberon is left to his work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, hey everybody. It's been a while. I needed a break from fandom and all of it's nonsense, but so many of you left AMAZING comments on this fic I just couldn't abandon it. Of course the first chapter I post after such a long break has absolutely nothing to do with the romance ya'll are here for, but on the bright side Oberon does a lot of talking in this chapter. probably more in this one chapter than he has to Cullen in the entire fic... 
> 
> But anyway, thank you all so much for the lovely comments, honestly, they always make my day so much brighter and I would not have continued this fic if not for them. I'll try not to take an eternity to post the next chapter (which I promise more than makes up for the fact Cullen's not even in this chapter at all) but I make no promises. Also sorry the chapters so short but hey, at least its finally here.


End file.
